


Raising a Demon 😈

by OtherWorldsIveLivedIn, sconelover



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: And They were Fake Parents Oh My God They Were Fake Parents, Baz being dramatic af but what's new, Baz's posh wanker pyjamas, Chaos Demon - Freeform, Cold Showers, Enemies to Fake Parents to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Evil Magickal Babies, Fake Baby AU, Getting Together, Happy Birthday Krisrix, How Many Insults Can Baz Fit Into 10 Minutes, It’s Slime Time, Let’s Go Raving, M/M, Magickal Life Skills, Magickal Parenthood, Merwolf Whack-A-Mole, Oh you thought it was soft before?, Only One Bed, Pining, Simon Snow is Gay for Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Sleep Deprivation Truces, Strap in this about to get domestic as fuck, The Gang Gets Babies, Thirsty!Baz, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Is Bad at Feelings, We took this crack and gave it Feelings, deNiall, pitch on the pitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27059212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/pseuds/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover
Summary: Magickal Life Skills class doesn’t seem like it can get any worse… that is, until the 7th years are given fake Magickal babies to take care of for a week. Tasked with keeping a tiny human alive, Simon and Baz must deal with the trials and tribulations of Magickal parenting, including crying, night feeds, and… explosions?It’s a chaos demon. Instructions not included.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 293
Kudos: 412





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrisRix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/gifts).



> Happy Birthday to our King, Kris 🥳👏🎉  
> You bring so much joy to the fandom and we’re so thankful to have you in our lives as our benevolent leader ❤️Thank you for always being unendingly thoughtful and caring and for making this fandom such a positive place for everyone!  
> You asked the fandom-sphere for a fake baby fic, and here is our humble offering... we hope you like it 🥰
> 
> Big thanks to [ninemagicks](%E2%80%9C) and [sourcherrymagiks](%E2%80%9C) for beta reading!!! 💕
> 
> Tumblr masterpost [here!](https://scone-lover.tumblr.com/post/632251863521280000/raising-a-demon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some things even ‘Spick and Span’ can’t get rid of…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: vomit

(Art by the fantastic [Selkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unenthusiastic_mermaid)!) 

* * *

**  
** ** Day 1: ****Tuesday**

**Baz **

Magickal Life Skills class is the worst part of my Monday morning. Two hours of absolute torture. So far this term, we’ve had to learn cooking spells, tea-making spells, mopping spells, fucking _dish-washing_ spells… I know how to apply for a Magickal mortgage and file Magickal taxes (which didn’t even exist until The Mage came along). 

Last week I was forced into a Magickal speed-dating exercise over tea. I would say that those two minutes stuck with Agatha Wellbelove were the lowest point of my life, but the murderous look on Snow’s face made the whole ordeal completely worth it. 

Of course they force us to take it in 7th year, because this inane class alone would be reason enough to skip out on 8th year entirely.

Madam Bellamy is looking especially smug today as she hauls a large crate onto her desk. I’m certain that this cannot bode well. She’s always quite pleasant in Elocution, but seems to delight in causing us excessive stress and pain under the ruse of “preparing us for the wider world” in this one. 

A deceptively kind smile graces her face as she casts, **_“Let the words speak for themselves,”_ **and a piece of chalk lifts itself and begins to scrawl across the blackboard. 

_Preparing for Magickal Parenthood._

Oh no. No. Most definitely not. Fuck a nine-toed _troll._ Not this— _anything_ but this.

“You have a very important project this week,” she states, folding her hands demurely in front of her as the chalk continues writing of its own accord. “Someday, you may be parents. And, as you’ll learn—in quite an unpleasant way, if you’re not prepared—Magickal babies present their own unique set of challenges.”

The room is completely silent as the horror of the situation sinks in. Twelve clueless teenagers and the words _Magickal babies_ is not a good combination.

I yearn to bolt from this situation. I could do it. I’ve got vampire speed. They’d never see me leave.

“Once I begin the selection process, some may be put into groups, pairs or even remain alone,” Madam Bellamy continues. “There is no singular right way to raise a child, after all.” 

Penelope Bunce’s hand shoots up. “A real baby, Professor?”

Madam Bellamy covers a laugh. “For heaven’s snakes, _no.”_ She reaches into the crate on her desk and removes what looks like a doll. “They aren’t real babies, but they will be charmed to act like real, six month-old Magickal babies—minus the poo. You’re welcome.”

There’s a collective sigh of relief.

“However,” she says, and we all collectively stiffen again, “you will have to feed them, bathe them, and essentially keep them alive and happy for one week.”

An entire week with a fucking Magickal _baby._ Merlin and Morgana.

Keris raises her hand. “Sorry, but you mentioned Magickal babies have, erm. Unique challenges?”

Bunce muffles a laugh. She must know; she’s got four siblings, too.

Next to her, Snow is looking slightly sick. I can’t imagine what he’ll do, given an actual human to take care of. Probably accidentally set it on fire. Or hit it with his infernal sword; he’s always swinging it around so carelessly. He’d get so distracted by scones in the dining hall that he’d lose the child under the table.

I feel for whoever’s lumbered with him, I really do. Though with his luck, he’ll get paired with Wellbelove and everything will be hunky dory for the golden couple.

“You’ll have to wait and see, won’t you?” Bellamy says with a mysterious smile. I can’t believe how I’ve underestimated her. Who knew she was capable of such malice?

I am _intimately_ familiar with the fucking shenanigans of Magickal babies. More than I’d have ever cared to be. So perhaps I will get top marks in this assignment. If I could handle a devilish Mordelia, surely a fake baby will be child’s play in comparison.

Bunce’s hand is sticking straight up in the air again. “Sorry, Professor,” she says. “Just–how will this assignment be graded?”

Simon has his chin resting on one hand, his fingers bunching up the ruddy skin of his cheek. I can’t even imagine how gracelessly he’d handle a baby. (Tuck it under his arm like a rugby ball, accidentally drop it on its head and it’d grow up to be as thick as he is.) Except then I _do_ imagine him grown up, handling a baby, caressing a tiny, freckled bundle that looks just like him with a loving expression in his eyes—

I look away.

“Good question,” Madam Bellamy says. She points her wand at the baby she’s still holding, who’s wearing nothing but a nappy. **_“You’re a real boy, Pinocchio!”_ **she casts, and the baby’s skin suddenly flushes with vitality. Its features change until it looks like Madam Bellamy—big ears and a swirl of brown hair—and its eyes blink open blearily.

“I will spell all the babies like so,” she explains. “If they feel upset or otherwise threatened, they will glow purple.”

She takes a step forward and drops the baby directly onto Rhys’s desk. It starts wailing loudly and its chest glows a bright shade of violet. “Each baby will keep track of such instances, and marks will be deducted for each one. You must take care of the baby as if it is your own.”

“We’re seventeen,” Dev protests, then remembers to raise his hand. Madam Bellamy tuts, but waves for him to continue. “How are we supposed to know how to do this?”

“The learning process is the point of the assignment,” she answers. “Since it’s not a real baby, you’ll have none of the stakes involved.”

Dev folds his arms. “What about during classes? What if it… cries or gets sick or whatever?”

“They’re charmed to sleep during your classes. Again,”—she lifts an elegant eyebrow—“you’re welcome. Now, are there any other questions before the selection process begins?”

Trixie asks where the baby is meant to sleep—we’ll be given Moses baskets, apparently, and pushchairs as well. And “parent packs” with everything else we’ll need: clothes, milk bottles (charmed to refill and keep warm), et cetera.

Seven _hells._ This is practically my worst nightmare. And there’s no escape.

The one saving grace is that, if I am paired, there’s no chance I’ll be paired up with Snow. The spell sounds like it will be randomised, but as far as partners are concerned, I’ve no doubt it will be completely heteronormative—the pairs are bound to be girls with boys. 

With luck I’ll get put into a group with Bunce, who will insist on doing everything herself because she won’t trust me not to sabotage her. Or maybe I’ll be paired with Wellbelove, which will at least create an opportunity to absolutely torture Snow. He’ll be in such a strop.

I absentmindedly take notes as Bellamy answers more questions, bouncing her charmed baby on one hip all the while with a practiced confidence. Finally, with fifteen minutes left until the end of class, she announces that it’s time to undergo the selection process.

Madam Bellamy waves her wand and our names appear in neat rows above her head in black letters. She whispers an incantation I can’t hear, and the names begin to rearrange themselves. Once a decision is made, the names turn gold.

Gareth, Elspeth and Saira get put into a group first and we all watch them awkwardly make eye contact as they realise they now have to group-parent a bloody child whilst not knowing the first thing about it or each other.

Madam Bellamy continues the selection process, happily congratulating groups, pairs and individuals, and spelling babies like the whole class isn’t praying for an early death. 

The babies, once charmed, either look like their individual “parent” or look like a blend of their pairs and groups—a random combination of features, and terrifyingly lifelike. True to her word, none of them are kicking up a fuss yet; they seem to be in a sleeping state whilst class is still ongoing.

Then Trixie and Keris get put together—the first same-sex pair—and my heart drops to my fucking shoes. They’re dating, though, so I’m hoping that maybe the spell just knows. I’m grasping at straws, but I’m hoping that for once in my miserable life I won’t get dealt a shit hand.

(Their baby is adorable. Keris’s curly brown hair and Trixie’s delicate, pointy pixie features. And it’s _sparkling.)_

Except then Dev and Niall are also put together. For Merlin’s sake. (I really don’t want to consider the potential implications of _that.)_ (I’m having enough of a breakdown as it is.) 

I still haven’t been allocated a baby, and if I’m to be paired or matched into a group, the options are dwindling. There’s Bunce, Wellbelove, Rhys… and Simon Snow.

The names shift around agonisingly slowly, like my own personal wheel of misfortune. Penelope Bunce migrates towards _Simon Snow,_ but seems to change its mind at the last minute and ends up with Rhys instead. 

It dawns on me that I could end up alone in this. Which would be ideal, honestly.

But Crowley, the universe could never be that kind to me. No, Wellbelove has been lucky enough to be partnerless. And _Basilton Pitch_ has moved to the right and has started glowing golden.

Right alongside _Simon Snow._

* * *

Madam Bellamy places the baby down on the desk in front of Snow with a bright smile, as if she’s bestowing a gift and not a bloody death sentence.

Snow hasn’t stopped gaping at me since our names got matched. He had started blustering when it first happened— _But! It’s just! I mean! No! What!—_ but has since fallen silent. His mouth is hanging open like he’s a particularly stupid goldfish but I can’t even mock him for it. I’m just as gobsmacked myself.

I try to mask my horror as Madam Bellamy casts the Pinocchio spell and the baby transforms before my eyes. Its hair turns black like mine and whilst it’s not very long yet, it’s got tiny corkscrew curls. I can already tell it’s going to grow into a messy thatch, just like Snow’s hair. 

(It’s an absurdly good-looking child.) (Of course it is.)

It must sense my eyes on it, because it turns to look at me and I see it has three moles in a line across its left cheek. Its eyes are the same plain shade of blue as Snow’s. 

I stand abruptly, suddenly needing to be anywhere but here.

“Oi!” I hear Snow shout in surprise as my movement knocks into his desk and the baby rocks dangerously.

“Mr Pitch, is there a problem?” Madam Bellamy asks with a soft smile. 

_Is there a problem?_ she asked me. _Is there a problem!?_ Yes, there bloody well is! This demon of a woman has somehow paired me up to raise a fake baby with the only man on earth with whom I would actually consider doing it for real.

It’s a dream come true and simultaneously a nightmare turned reality.

And I can’t exactly say any of that out loud.

I stand there, a little dumbfounded, while a few of my classmates snigger. I’m not used to being on the receiving end of mockery. I make the mistake of looking down at Snow and see the baby resting against his chest while he confusedly pats its back, like it’s a bloody dog. It’s so disgustingly soft that I’m lost for words.

Fuck it all.

I decide that Madam Bellamy won’t be getting an explanation from me after all, but she will be getting a call from my Father.

I make no attempts to pack up my things or recover my dignity as I storm towards the door.

* * *

**Simon **

I thought it was bad _living_ with Baz, but now I know that’s nothing compared to this. I should actually thank my lucky stars that, until now, I’ve only had to live with him. If I could somehow magic us back to only that, I’d be content to draw a line down the centre of my room and ignore him for the rest of my days. I’d be thrilled! 

Because now we’ve been paired up to take care of a _baby_ together.

So really, it makes the roommates thing seem like a walk in the park.

I don’t know what Madam Bellamy was thinking, letting this happen. Most days, we can barely spend an hour together in a classroom without wanting to tear each other’s heads off. How she expects us to take care of a baby together is beyond me, even if it’s a fake one.

It’s barely been half hour and of course he’s already shirking his responsibilities and making me do all the dirty work. He never came back to the classroom so I’ve ended up having to carry all the baby things to our room by myself. 

I’m determined to make it up the stairs in one trip. Between the baby in one arm (which of course started wailing as soon as I left the classroom), its basket-thing slung around the other, my backpack on my back and Baz’s satchel pressing against my front, I’m puffing up a storm. I feel like a bloody pack mule.

And this thing keeps squirming. I’ve no idea how to hold it and Bellamy didn’t bother teaching us, just let us loose looking all smug, like she’d done us some kind of massive favour. 

I’m so pissed off at Baz. I should have just left his posh wanker bag in the classroom. (It’s heavy as fuck—what does he have in here anyway, an encyclopaedia? _Two_ encyclopaedias?)

He opens the door with an icy expression. “Give me that,” he snaps, reaching for the baby, “before you drop it, or worse.”

I hold the baby close to my chest. “No chance,” I tell him. “You literally abandoned us in the classroom. Knowing you, you’ll leave it down in the Catacombs to die. Or feed it to your rat friends.”

Baz sneers at me. “Have it your way, but when it gets sick in the middle of the night, don’t expect me to help.” He settles down in his desk chair and looks down his nose at me, not making a single move to assist me as I haul all of the stuff into the room. 

Throwing up? In the middle of the night? Merlin. I bloody well hope not. 

“It’s a partner project,” I scowl. “You’d better help.”

“Just because we’ve been _partnered”—_ Baz spits the word like it’s personally wronged him—“doesn’t mean we have to actually work together, Snow.”

I still haven’t figured out how to hold the baby, to be honest, but I shift it to my other shoulder. (I think this is right.) It seems to be falling asleep, but Baz is speaking so loudly and it’s making me even angrier at him. 

“What do you suggest we do, then?” I hiss.

He rolls his eyes. “We trade off, obviously. Take the doll for a day each.”

“It’s not a _doll–”_

“We’ll still be co-parenting, thus fulfilling the requirements of the assignment,” he continues, ignoring me. The baby shifts, yawning in a startlingly lifelike way as it wakes up. I sit down on my bed, trying to rub its back soothingly. (This is a thing that works, right?) No such luck. As Baz opens his mouth to continue (probably to insult me), he’s interrupted by a loud wail. 

(Right in my ear—I flinch. It sounds like the banshees Penny and I encountered fourth year.)

“Look, you’ve made it upset!” I frown at him as I attempt to calm it down. It bashes its little fists against my shoulder, bawling its eyes out. “Shhh.”

“Don’t you dare shush–”

“I’m talking to the baby,” I grumble. I begin to bounce it up and down. I think that’s a thing that helps...

“You’re incompetent, Snow. You’re doing it all wrong.”

“I don’t see you doing any better,” I shoot back. Baz folds his arms like he’s done with me, letting me know that I won’t be able to goad him into helping.

I stand up again and start to pace the room with the baby in my arms. I rock it back and forth, but it’s still screaming bloody murder in my ear. (Penny’d had the foresight for earplugs with the banshees.) 

Baz closes his eyes and kneads at his temples like he has a headache. “Just shut the thing up, Snow,” he groans.

“I’m trying!” I growl. 

“Well, try harder!”

“You try!” In my anger, I jerk the baby up and its head smashes into my chin. It screams even louder, if possible, face screwed up so tightly it starts to glow purple. _“Fuck!”_

(Shit. Is it okay to curse in front of the baby...?)

Baz stands up with fire in his eyes, advancing towards me. “I swear to Crowley, Snow…”

I’m half-expecting him to leave the room, but instead he comes close—closer to me than he has in ages, since we stopped fist-fighting a couple of years ago—and wrenches the baby from my grasp. He’s not gentle about it, either. 

I watch as he holds it under the armpits gingerly, as if it might be contaminated. With a grimace, he lays it on his shoulder, right against his perfectly pressed shirt. (That surprises me—even I wouldn’t trust that thing near any nice clothes.)

Baz’s tight expression doesn’t shift as he places one hand on the baby’s back. It looks impossibly tiny in his grasp, his hand dwarfing its entire body. His face is so close to the baby’s that I’m almost scared for it. (It’s not real, so that means he can’t drain its blood, right?) 

Baz won’t even look at me now, just stares at the floor as he pats the baby and awkwardly murmurs, “There, there.”

I watch him sceptically. Baz is quite possibly the least comforting person in the entire world. 

The baby goes silent and Baz raises an arrogant eyebrow at me. For one heart-stopping moment, I’m afraid it’s worked; that Baz has managed to soothe this demon child and he’ll be all smug and hold it over me for the rest of the week. 

But I quickly realise, as Baz’s expression shifts to one of wide-eyed horror—and it’s not one I’ve seen on him often—that the baby has only gone silent because it’s decided to favour a different activity.

It’s been sick on him.

* * *

** Baz **

I thought I could do this. I was wrong.

You can’t say I didn’t try.

Snow’s brought a hand up to his mouth in what seems like panic, but I’m almost certain he’s concealing a laugh from me. His eyes are practically twinkling with mirth.

I attempt to set him on fire with my stare. I could probably do it if I tried hard enough.

“Take it,” I spit, yanking the demon off my ruined garment and thrusting it at him. “I need to get cleaned up.”

He rolls his eyes but accepts the thing. With his other arm, he rummages around the parent pack and finds a towel to wipe its face off. “Why don’t you just spell it clean?”

“Because that doesn’t actually _clean_ clothes–”

“Oh, so you’re admitting your cleaning spells aren’t up to par?”

I can’t believe how idiotic he is. Everyone—well, everyone who’s a competent mage—knows that whistles aren’t actually very clean at all. And besides, it doesn’t do anything for the smell. I’d rather not stink of baby vomit.

Except Snow’s taunting me, and I shouldn’t have to stand here explaining or justifying my actions. So I just meet his challenging gaze and slide my wand out of my sleeve. 

**_“Spick and span,”_ **I say, pointing my wand at my shirt.

The vomit, which is a sickly peach colour, sparks with my magic. I feel it tingling, wet against my shirt and my skin, which is just disgusting honestly. 

In front of me, Simon’s eyes widen in alarm. “It’s, um–” he says.

I brace myself as I slowly look down at my shirt. The sick isn’t gone—far from it. It’s _growing._ Spreading itself across my shirt like ink. Like some kind of… amoeba. 

I look back up at Snow, who looks just as disgusted as I feel. **_“Clean as a whistle,”_ ** I try. The monstrous vomit _pulses,_ then begins to grow at an even faster pace. It’s encroaching on my trousers—

“No,” I whisper, revolted. Snow’s frozen, just staring at me and the offending sentient vomit. The little devil gives a happy gurgle and burps.

I turn on my heel, pluck the first top I see out of my wardrobe, and stride to the bathroom as quickly as I can without running. I rip off my soiled shirt, flick a flame from the tip of my finger, and set it directly on fire.

That’s one problem solved. 

Simon pounds on the door. “Baz, are you _smoking?”_

“No!” I yell.

“You know that’s not allowed–”

“I’m not smoking.”

“What the hell are you doing, then?”

“I’m–” Why does he have to know? It’ll just serve to humiliate me further. “None of your business.” The shirt is a pile of ash on the floor. I vanish it away with a wave of my wand.

“The room is filling with smoke—the room we _share_ —and there’s a baby here! I think it’s my business!” I hear the telltale squeal of Snow cranking open the window.

“Like you don’t fill the room with smoke all the time.”

He bangs on the door again. “Look, the baby’s coughing and glowing purple–”

I wrench open the ensuite door and glare at him. He cranes his neck to peer behind me, expression accusatory. “What did you do?” 

“What did that– that _thing!_ Do?” I point at the baby in his arms. “Crowley! You saw that, didn’t you?” I must sound hysterical. I _am_ hysterical. I take a few deep, calming breaths.

Snow looks at me like I’m mad. (I _am_ going mad.) “You’re the one who apparently set a _fire_ because you couldn’t deal with some bloody sick.”

“The sick,” I sputter, “was _alive._ You saw it. You–” I could rip my hair out. I swear he’s doing this on purpose, acting like nothing out of the ordinary happened. “That wasn’t normal vomit!”

Snow pats the baby’s back, showing no signs of fear for his life like any reasonable person would, and it burps again. “Well of course not,” he says. “Madam Bellamy said it’s a Magickal baby, so it’ll have Magickal vomit, won’t it?”

“I have younger siblings. That’s not just Magickal,” I say darkly. “It’s evil.”

He rolls his eyes. “Complain all you want, we’re stuck with it,” he says. “Also, you realise you’re wearing your football shirt, right?”

I hadn’t. It was just the first thing I got my hands on. I don’t see why it’s important—or why Snow’s noticed, for that matter, or decided to let me know, as if I didn’t have eyes of my own. “Yes,” I lie. “And now it’s going to stink, too.”

“Already does,” Snow mutters, his face going red.

“You’re one to talk, Snow.” I gather up my pyjamas and walk to the ensuite again. “Keep that thing away from me,” I tell him in my most plotting, most warning tone. 

I stay in the shower for a long time. When I come out, the lights are off, Snow’s in bed, and the baby’s in its Moses basket, which has been perched on the nightstand between our beds. Because of course he couldn’t just put it on his desk on the other side of the room. 

No, it has to be right here where I can smell its lovely baby smell. And hear its tiny snores as it sleeps peacefully, sucking on its dummy and taking no heed of the utter havoc it’s just wreaked on my life. And watch its tiny feet kicking at the air with the smallest toes I’ve ever seen, sending its Watford blanket into twists.

It sleeps in a knot, curled up on its side, mirroring Snow exactly.

I hate the little monster.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Footballer thighs can be very distracting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s cursive script below but a plain text image can also be found in the notes at the bottom of the page for ease of reading ❤️
> 
> CW: slime

**  
** ** Day 2: ****Wednesday**

** Simon**

Baz is doing pretty well today on the pitch, considering neither of us got a lick of sleep last night. 

The baby might have stopped throwing up and gone to sleep, but it definitely does not like its basket-thing. 

Baz’s “leave me out of it” attitude didn’t last very long when it started screaming at two in the morning and our bedroom light started flashing in time to its wails, like some kind of techno rave.

He sat bolt upright in bed—hair looking like a crow’s nest—and reached for his wand. 

And then, voice hoarse with sleep, he tried to _spell the baby silent._

Of course it didn’t work. For someone usually so intelligent, it was a stupid move: what part of _Magickal_ baby does he not get? The baby completely lost it, flashing bright purple and nearly blinding the both of us, never breaking its rhythm of screaming blue fucking murder. 

We stared at each other, facing off. A battle to see who would break first. The lights flashed on Baz’s face: red, purple, green, red, purple, green... The baby screamed louder and the lights started _strobing._ Baz sat still as a statue, glaring at me.

Of course it was me who bloody well gave in. I just wanted to go the fuck back to sleep, and I knew Baz would be too arrogant to break first. I heaved myself out of bed and picked up the baby, who I figured was probably just hungry. (I know _I_ was.) His judgemental stare made me fumble more than I usually would’ve, but I eventually got the bottle out of the parent pack while juggling the baby in one arm. 

As soon as I got the bottle near its mouth the lights turned off again, the sudden silence a cool relief. Baz didn’t say a word to me—I’m not even sure Baz knows the words ‘thank you’—but he did sigh enormously and pull his duvet up and over his head. I tried not to seethe. 

This morning Baz was gone before I even woke up, so I was left to wrestle the baby into the clothes we were given (a Watford emblazoned, green-and-purple striped onesie). It didn’t glow, luckily, but the whole thing felt like trying to convince a worseger to put on a waistcoat. 

Anyway, it’s after classes now, and I’m at the football match against one of Watford’s toughest opponents. Probably the whole school is here to cheer our team on.

Baz is dodging and dribbling the ball like no one’s business. Even though someone tackled him to the ground earlier and he hit his head, he shows no signs of stopping. (I often wonder how much of his stamina is supernatural ability and how much is just his ridiculously long and muscular legs.)

I’m watching him intently, biting my lip with tension, when, impossibly, he scores another goal. I stand to cheer along with the rest of the crowd, getting swept away in the game and accidentally spilling my crisps onto the floor.

Coach Mac pulls the team in for a huddle. I catch Baz looking at me briefly before the whistle goes and the teams are off running again. 

I watch Baz just as closely as usual, but it takes me a few seconds to notice that he’s running _away_ from the ball. Actually, it looks as though he’s making a beeline straight for me. He’s shouting something at me, but I can’t make out the words. He starts waving his arms over his head at me vigorously, so I wave back at him.

Weird.

He’s close enough now that I can just about make out the words “Snow” and “Baby.” Huh. He’s never called me that before. Maybe he’s got a concussion from earlier? I continue waving back at him because I figure you shouldn’t be rude to people who are injured, especially people who have just called you _baby._

I can see his face now and it’s red, sweaty, and nearly murderous. Shit. Maybe this is the moment he’s finally decided to kill me–

Then Baz yanks his wand out of his sock, points it at his throat, and his voice booms out. **“SNOW! WHERE’S THE BABY!?”**

Fuck. _The baby!_

I look down at my lap as if it’ll Magickally appear there, instead of in the boys toilets on the 3rd floor where I’m almost certain I left it.

I’ve been sat in the middle row because it’s got the best view, but now I’m trapped. I rush from the stands as fast as I can, vaulting over benches instead of making for the stairs, shouting apologies over my shoulder to people as I spill drinks into their laps. I sprint full pelt in the direction of the baby.

 _Please don’t let it be glowing,_ I pray uselessly. _Please._

I’m barely past the threshold of the building when I hear it, crying loudly. I stumble through the toilet door in a rush, but freeze in shock when I see what’s happening inside.

The crying has stopped, but the room is dripping with slime. Thick green, yellow, and orange waves of it covering every surface, oozing from the ceiling. I search along the countertop frantically with my eyes and watch as the sink bubbles with a fresh batch.

_Merlin._

It isn’t until I notice in the toilet mirror the fading pulse of a purple hue above me that I realise the baby is floating in mid-air, completely slime-free. I crane my head back in shock and it reaches towards me, giggling like this is the funniest thing it’s ever seen.

I’m struck suddenly with fear over just how terrifying this thing is. I consider backing out of the doorway slowly and running for my life, but then it starts to float towards me. It scrunches up its nose, lower lip trembling, and I automatically stretch to bring it down into my arms before it can start crying again. 

If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that it’s always best to leave a crime scene as fast as possible. I close the door as quietly as I can and bolt before someone can catch me and force me to clean it up.

I watch as the baby seems to fall asleep against my chest while I hurry back to the room, clearly worn out from causing utter destruction. Its lips are pouty and its nose is too high on its face, I realise, just like Baz’s.

* * *

Baz is lying in wait when I get back to the room. Like a tiger hunting its prey. (Or, well, a vampire.) I’m barely through the door before he snatches the baby from my arms and launches into a campaign of insults.

_“I leave you alone for one second and you lose the bloody thing!”_

_“Are you sure you aren’t half troll after all?”_

_“Do you actually have a brain or did you lose that, too?”_

_“Crowley, Snow, you’ve got the awareness of a concussed_ _turkey!”_

I try to defend myself, but he cuts me off with a sharp raise of his eyebrow.

“No, you listen to me!” he starts, as if I haven’t just sat here listening to a tirade of slander for the past twelve minutes. “As wretched as it is, my grades are tied to yours so I need you to not be a bumbling ignoramus for once in your life.”

The baby’s glowing a faint purple, getting brighter by the second as my magic fills the room. It must be getting irritated by the smoky scent. I try to tamp down my anger at Baz as I glance around nervously for the first signs of slime.

“Baz, the baby–” I try to warn, but he continues laying into me.

“I know you’d lose your head if it weren't screwed on, but–” 

“It’s not like you’ve been helping out!” I explode. _So much for staying calm, Simon_. “Too fancy to get your hands dirty? Are you gonna call your nanny in like the other posh wankers do?” 

“–even someone with your below-average intelligence should be able to keep track of a baby!” he finishes, completely ignoring what I’ve just said. 

I’ve had enough, to be honest. I stand and get right up in his face just as the baby reaches practically fluorescent levels of violet and begins screaming. I watch in fascinated horror as Baz’s hair slowly turns the same shade. 

“Now look what you’ve done,” Baz starts. “You’ve set it off with your dragon breath. Control your smoke!”

The insult doesn’t land, though, on account of Baz’s bright violet hair. I pull my lips into my mouth in an attempt to stop the laugh bursting from behind my teeth.

“This isn’t funny, Snow.” He tilts out his right hip and bounces the baby on it. His purple hair, still slicked back and wet from the shower, bounces right along with him.

Of course he’s still managing to pull it off, the tosser. The purple is making his grey eyes shine like liquid silver. Like he’s a fairy or something.

“This counts towards our final grade. You might be failing at everything in life but I have a record to uphold.”

He almost sounds like he’s pleading and I consider telling him about the hair. But then he puts the baby down in its basket-thing, turns to me and says, “You’re a disgrace to Magic, just let me handle it,” and I decide that I’d love nothing more than for the whole school to see him look like a twat.

Baz turns towards the bathroom, and I involuntarily shout “No!”

He turns to me with his eyebrow raised. “I’m going for a piss, Snow. Surely you can handle not losing the thing for two whole minutes?”

Baz strides decisively towards the bathroom. I know his reaction to what he sees in the mirror is _not_ going to be pretty, so I scoop up the baby and rush for the door before he can decide to light us both on fire. 

I hear him shout, “BY THE GRACE OF–” just as I cross the threshold and slam the door.

I pat the baby on the head as we half-tumble down the stairs. “Good girl,” I tell it, grinning.

* * *

** Baz **

It took much longer than I’m willing to admit to spell the purple out of my hair without accidentally causing it all to fall out. (Crowley, the horror.) I have four younger siblings and not one of them has been this chaotic. It’s like the Pinocchio spell gave that little shit Simon Snow-levels of destructive magic.

I almost don’t bother going to dinner. I consider stalking the Catacombs and leaning into my sombre mood instead, but I could use a nice pot of tea to calm my nerves after this afternoon’s ordeal. (It was touch and go there for a second with whether I’d have to slink over to the infirmary looking like a bloody beetroot.)

I nearly trip over a rolling napkin ring when I approach the Weeping Tower. It’s cold out, even by Snow’s standards, but there are a lot of lower-year students scattered on the Great Lawn, plates and teapots spread around them.

As I enter the dining hall, I understand why they’ve mounted an escape. I’m assaulted by a cacophony of wails as my classmates desperately try to calm their babies with one hand and shovel in food with the other.

I watch as Niall frantically tries to untangle their baby’s fingers from Dev’s hair, only to have the baby upturn a full plate of cottage pie into Dev’s lap. Poor Niall looks on the verge of tears, but I look away quickly when I see Dev wrap his arm soothingly across Niall's back—it no longer seems like something I should be watching.

Saira, Elspeth, and Gareth seem to be keeping their baby from screaming by passing it between them like a game of hot potato, but the second one of them falters in their rhythm, it releases a screech to rival a fox mid-mating season.

Panic floods through me as I consider what devastation our assigned demon could cause in a hall like this. However, once my eyes pass over where Snow’s sitting, I’m shocked to find him shoveling food in with two hands as usual, the baby pressed up against his front, sleeping apparently, in what looks to be some kind of sling. (It’s covered in a pattern of cherries. Of course.)

It’s still alive, shockingly. He’s even managed to clothe it, in a horribly cute Watford-themed babygrow.

Bunce spots me and waves me over and I consider ignoring her out of pure spite. We aren’t friends; she can’t just beckon me to her. She rolls her eyes at me and gestures towards Snow, as if it would be obvious that we should want to sit together now. (I do want to sit with him.) (I always want to sit with him.) (Even if his ghastly table manners are enough to put anyone off their food.)

I grab a pot of tea and walk over with my head held high. If I’m to sit with them then I want Snow to think I find it demeaning.

Snow’s head whips up towards me when I sit, and I watch as his expression falls into a look of comical disappointment at my perfectly combed _black_ hair.

“Your– your hair,” he says, crestfallen.

“What about it?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“It’s… y’know… ” Snow blusters for a moment, clearly searching for the words. “It’s bloody perfect,” he finally grumbles, almost to himself.

Bunce shoots him a curious glance that I don’t miss.

I raise an eyebrow. “Thank you?”

He growls and turns back to his food, but I don’t miss the heat colouring his cheeks. I look away before I can somehow convince myself that it means something it doesn’t.

Rhys has his and Bunce’s baby slung against his chest as well, in a fleece-type material with llamas on it. Bunce catches me eyeing it dubiously.

“They’re baby slings,” she states, as if I’m too stupid to have figured that out. “I made them from a few of my old pyjamas. Our parent packs are shockingly lacking, especially given Rhys needs his arms for his chair! Besides, even Magickal babies find comfort in the heat from another human body, and they find being pressed against someone else’s heartbeat to be very soothing.”

“Wouldn’t everyone find that soothing?” Rhys asks.

I glance over at Snow. The baby’s cuddling into his heat, contented. (It loves him.) (Of course it does.)

“That depends,” I answer, “are they a human furnace like Miracle Boy over here?”

“Well it’s better than being pressed against an icicle,” Snow retorts. “Anyone would freeze to death pressed against you.”

Agatha sighs from next to him. “This bickering cannot be good for Destiny. I’m going to my room.”

“Whose destiny?” Snow asks, brow furrowed. We watch as Agatha stands and wraps her bag around the handle of a pastel pink pushchair, where her assigned baby is sleeping peacefully. (It has butterfly clips in its blonde hair and I think it's wearing a flowery yellow dress.) (It looks quite cute, actually.) 

“The baby,” she states.

Snow stares at her walking away with his mouth open. I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he tries to puzzle it out. Then he realises that I’m _also_ watching her and he kicks me harshly under the table.

“Oi! Just because Agatha and I are having a break doesn’t mean you can jump right in,” he accuses. “We’ll get back together once this baby malarkey’s all over.”

Wait, what’s this? ...Trouble in paradise?

Bunce seems surprised by this as well. “You guys are finally over, Simon? That makes sense, I mean, she’s doing so well at this assignment all by herself–”

“We’re not over, Penny!” Snow interrupts, somewhat desperately, and I wonder who he’s really trying to convince. “Aggie said that this baby thing has shown her she’s fine by herself but once it’s all over, she’ll see that we’re still each other’s… well, destiny!”

He pats down the baby’s hair absentmindedly— _his_ curls, _my_ hair colour—and I look away, certain that the love I have for this infernal moron is written plainly across my face.

“These babies are just messing with everyone’s heads,” Snow grumbles as an afterthought.

He’s not wrong there. The longer I sit here, the more I’m convinced that the sight of Simon looking like a father is draining me of all my carefully curated defences.

“Well,” I say, “as lovely and tragic as this has been, I had better get back to studying.”

Snow stands when I do, but I gather my things without looking his way. 

“Simon.” Penny grabs his sleeve to divert his attention. “You promised you’d help Rhys do Restorative Flow Baby Yoga.”

“Why can’t you do it?” Snow whines petulantly. Crowley, which one is meant to be Bunce’s child, again?

“Just because I’m a woman, Simon, does not mean…”

I decide to make my escape, leaving Snow rubbing the baby’s back gently in what is probably an attempt to comfort _himself_ from the barrage of Bunce’s speech.

It’s not until after I’ve put a good thirty feet between myself and that disgustingly domestic scene that I realise I didn’t even get to pour myself a cup of tea.

* * *

** Simon **

Baz is waiting for me— _again_ —like some kind of scolding headmaster when I trudge up to our room with the baby in tow. He’s cast **_See what I mean_ ** _,_ and the space above our desks is covered in his neat, slanting script.

“What’s this?” I ask drearily. The baby wouldn’t stop fussing after Baz left, just kept pulling my hair and making faces at me. I tried the bottle, the dummy; I even checked its nappy to see if it had gone for a number two, even though Madam Bellamy said they don’t poo. But it just kept squirming and occasionally bursting into tears.

I lay the baby gently down in its cot, but of course it chokes out a sob of complaint, so I sigh and pick it up again.

“I should hope I don’t have to explain it,” Baz says, “though I suppose I shouldn’t overestimate your literacy.”

I roll my eyes and read what he’s written. It seems to be a chart, divided into two sides: “Snow” and “Baz.” (Why he can’t just use my first name is beyond me.) Each name has a list of tasks: 

“Why do I have so many more?” I demand.

Baz leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. He’s seemingly prepared for this reaction. “Our responsibilities are equal,” he claims. “As you can see, I’ll have the baby for the majority of the day’s hours.”

“Yeah, the hours where it’s charmed to _sleep._ And,” I continue, stumbling for a better argument, “you’ve given me all the shit bits!”

“Take it or leave it, Snow. If you’d prefer, I can do nothing,” Baz offers, as if he’s being generous.

I growl and tear at my hair a little with my free hand. Baz is such a twat. This is meant to be a _joint_ assignment, but of course he’d find a way to…

It’s not like I want to be doing this either!

“It’s a partner assignment,” I plead, “we have to compromise.”

“No,” Baz says dryly.

I glare at him over the baby’s head, trying not to raise my voice so I don’t upset it. “You have to take feeding and burping it too. We’ll split it.” I continue before he has a chance to interrupt. “In between classes, when it gets hungry. That’s on you.”

“I’m not carrying around that unsightly parent pack,” he hisses.

I hadn’t noticed, but it is kind of tacky, I suppose. Like a hideous neon version of Watford purple—probably so we don’t lose it. Baz Pitch wouldn’t be caught dead toting that around—the mental image almost makes me laugh.

“Spell it pretty, then,” I deadpan.

Ignoring my sarcasm, he actually goes for it. While he’s busy with that, I consider his unfair list one more time.

“Wait, what about playing with it?” I ask.

Baz doesn’t even look up from his spellwork. “Absolutely not.”

He’s not even managed to get the bag a slightly darker shade of purple—it’s resisting his spells, and it’s just as naff as before. (Maybe even more.) I guess he’ll have to suck it up, then.

“But what about if it gets bored?” I attempt.

He finally looks up with a droll expression. “It’s not _real,_ Snow. It doesn’t ‘get bored.’”

“Well it gets bloody angry, don’t see why it shouldn’t get bored too.”

Baz sighs deeply like he finds this conversation incredibly draining, but stands and adds “playtime” to my column in his neat script.

I grin and lift the baby up over my head, making it fly and imitating aeroplane noises. It lets out a high pitched giggle as I zoom it around the room, then launch both of us onto my bed and bounce to a landing among the soft blankets.

Baz is not amused.

In fact, he’s trying to avoid looking at us, as if he finds our joy personally offensive.

He glances at his watch with a bored expression. “Well, Snow, it’s 9 pm. The little demon is all yours.” And with that, he disappears into the ensuite.

The baby grabs at my curls, then slaps my cheeks, and I smile at it, holding it up in front of me. “Don’t feel too bad,” I tell it. “Baz is a bit of a prat, he calls everyone mean names.” 

“I heard that!” Baz yells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plain text version of Baz's passive aggressive table ❤️  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sword of Mages is a perfectly adequate first toy.

**  
** ** Day 3: ****Thursday**

** Baz**

I am awoken by an inhuman screeching noise.

“Merlin’s fucking beard!” I slam my pillow on top of my head and roll back onto my stomach. “Snow, what have you done this time?”

His sleepy voice trickles across the room, warm and rough. “Sounds like a harpy screwing a two-headed orc.”

(I decide I don’t want to know how he knows what that sounds like.)

The sound doesn’t stop. My addled brain supplies the idea that maybe Watford’s having a fire drill. “Make it stop,” I groan.

“I can’t _see_ anything!” Snow protests. “Now if only one of us had night vision, wouldn’t that be convenient.”

“This is clearly your fault,” I tell my mattress. I press the pillow further to my ears, as if it will actually help.

I hear the rustle of Snow standing up to turn on the lights. “Well I don’t know wh–”

As I sit up, I realise what must be happening at the same time he does. Snow and I make eye contact as we both shout, “The baby!”

He whips his head around the room and peers into shadowy corners. “Where the fuck is it?” His sword is out a second later, materialising from his hip. “Get up, Baz!”

“The Moses Basket,” I say.

“The wha– _fuck.”_

It’s completely smashed to bits, like the baby personally summoned a manticore to crush its residence. 

I stare at it, then up at Snow. “Where. Is. The. Baby.”

He throws his arms in the air uselessly. “How should I know?”

“Let’s just find it,” I hiss, “before we fail this assignment.”

I haul myself from bed and stalk over to look for it in the ensuite while Snow peers out the open window. “It can fly, you know,” he adds casually.

I whirl around. “It can _what!”_

“It– well, it–” he stutters. “It was fl- floating yesterday–”

“You knew this,” I say slowly, “And you didn’t think to mention it?”

“You didn’t exactly give me a chance to debrief you about my day!” Snow scowls. “Anyway, I’ve found it.” He points out the window.

I shove him out of the way and shift my horrified gaze to the view outside. There’s a commotion down by the moat. The scene that reveals itself to me forms the tableau of my nightmares.

That hell spawn is wielding a rock that should be far too large for any baby to hold and zooming across the moat, cackling. Merwolves snap up at it, but it happily bashes them on the head like some twisted game of Whack-A-Mole.

Eight snakes and a _dragon._

Simon bursts out laughing. “Attagirl.”

I turn my infuriated glare on him. “This is your fault, Snow! You and that fucking window.”

He gapes at me. “It’s just having a bit of fun! Look, it’s winning, too… And you hate the merwolves Baz, what’s the problem?”

“Problem? The baby must get its moronic death-wish from you.” I pull my coat over my pyjamas. “Come on,” I snap. “Let’s go rescue it.”

Snow, miraculously, follows me down the stairs. “Did you see it in action? That baby doesn’t need rescuing. It could rescue us.”

“Of course,” I deadpan. “You’ve been outdone, Snow. Turns out the Greatest Mage was this fake baby all along. Who knew?”

* * *

** Simon **

Seventeen failed spells and three hours later, Baz and I drag ourselves back up the tower, smelling strongly of fish. 

I place the super-baby down on Baz’s desk. “Go the fuck to sleep,” I tell it.

“Why do you think that will work,” Baz says wearily, pointedly cranking the window closed, “when nothing else has? And get that thing off my desk, it reeks.”

“Maybe if we just fix its basket-thing and put it in there.” I pull out my wand and point it at the broken bits.

“No!” Baz protests. “Don’t–”

 _“_ **_Back to start!_ ** _”_ I cast. Baz and I watch in abject horror and morbid fascination, respectively, as the wooden pieces crawl towards each other… and form into a tree stump.

“Crowley, Snow,” Baz groans. He’s so worked up that he actually sits himself down on _my_ bed, dropping his head into his hands. “He uses _Back to start,”_ Baz mumbles to himself, shaking his head, clearly at wits’ end. 

“Um. So...”

The murderous look Baz sends me actually makes me flinch. _Yeah, that probably wasn’t my best idea._

“Look.” I try my best for a reasoning tone, but when has Baz ever been reasonable…? “It can sleep in one of our beds tonight and then we can ask for a new basket-thing in the morning.” 

“It’s not sleeping in my bed,” he growls. “It stinks of the moat. And”—he shudders—“I’m loath to see what happens if I try to spell it again.”

“What, you _don’t_ love fish-scented baby vomit?” I raise my eyebrows. “Sounds like fun.”

“I’d like to remind you that cleaning up vomit is _your_ task, Snow.”

I glance up at the chore chart. “And bathing the baby is yours, so really, the stench of our room right now is on you.”

“It’s still not sleeping in my bed!” Baz snaps.

“Fine, then,” I snap back. “It can sleep in my bed, with me.” I grab the baby from the desk and place it down against my pillow. It rolls over onto its front, burps, and snuggles in sweetly as if it wasn’t just playing a casual game of Street Fighter with a fourteen-stone sea monster.

“With your clobbering weight?” Baz says. “With the way you thrash around in your sleep, you’ll bloody squash it!”

He’s probably right; I move around a lot when I have nightmares. I growl at him for lack of a better response. We both stare daggers at each other until I watch Baz’s eyes dart quickly towards his bed and then back at me. An idea occurs to me... 

I really must be sleep deprived if my brain is actually considering this, but the possibility of it floods warmth through my muscles. (Merlin, I’m just so fucking tired.) I wonder how best to get Baz onside…

“We could...” I start hesitantly. “Um. That is. _I_ c-could…”

“Spit it out, Snow! It’s 3 am and I’ll throw you back in the moat I swear t–”

“I could sleep in your bed!” I blurt out in a rush. 

For once, Baz Pitch seems to be lost for words. He’s just staring at me in shock, and it’s so unusual and unnerving that I start rambling:

“It'll just be for one night! I mean, it’s barely a few hours, just until sunrise, and I know you always get cold but your duvet is definitely big enough to share–”

Baz’s eyes widen slightly at that and I backtrack hurriedly.

“Or, I mean—um. Well, y-you have enough extra b-blankets I suppose and I’ll keep to one side I swear, it’ll–”

“Deep breaths now, Snow, before you hyperventilate,” he interrupts, mercifully.

I stop before I can embarrass myself even more. My face is hot; I stare down at the floor because I’m too nervous to see his expression. He doesn’t answer for a while.

“Yes. Fine.” Baz’s words are clipped and his tone sharp. “We can share my— _the—_ bed for the remainder of the night.” I sigh with relief and meet his eyes. He jabs his finger towards my chest. “But! In the morning you’ll go straight to Madam Bellamy and tell her this is your fault.”

I feel my blood rise to my face. “How’s it my fault?

“Because the baby is your responsibility after 9pm,” he insists.

“Actually,” I counter, “it was _your_ task to watch it while it sleeps.” I point at Baz’s chart, which is still scrawled above the desk. 

He curses under his breath. “Alright,” he admits, and I watch as The Great Baz Pitch hangs his head in defeat. (The sight should be incredibly satisfying, but I’m too tired to enjoy it properly, which annoys me to no end.) “Clearly the list isn’t working.” 

“What do you suggest we do, then?” I demand as he swipes the chart away with a flick of his wrist.

“We sleep,” he says flatly, “and discuss in the morning.”

I scowl. “You’ll just disappear at dawn again.”

Baz sends a flat look my way. “It’s practically dawn already.”

I cross my arms. “We’re doing this now.”

Baz heaves a heavy sigh. “Fine.” He waves his wand again and the list of tasks reappears in the air. “We’ll split the duties,” he says magnanimously. “And,” he adds through gritted teeth, “cooperate.”

I stare blankly at him. _Cooperate?_ Maybe the baby bashed Baz on the head with a rock as well.

“What about you being a dick all the time?” I ask. 

“What about it?” he says indifferently, as if I’m mental to even bring it up.

I throw my hands up in frustration. “Well we can’t exactly cooperate if you’re being a wanker to me all day! Merlin, Baz, half of the baby’s freakouts have been because you rile me up. You get under my skin on purpose and–” 

“Truce,” Baz interrupts.

“Truce?” I repeat, a little dumbly. I wasn’t finished with my rant and he’s caught me off guard.

“A temporary one,” he states nonchalantly, clearing his throat. “We do our best to cooperate for the sake of our grade. We split the duties. No acts of malice. No winding each other up. _No going off.”_

He narrows his eyes pointedly at me for the last bit, as if he isn't usually the bloody reason for it.

I stare him down while I consider his terms. I thought sleeping in the same bed as him was a crazy idea, but us actually _cooperating_ seems a bit far.

“What, and then afterwards it’s just business as usual? You take a break from plotting for four days and then on the fifth you make up for it by pushing me down the stairs again?”

“Crowley, Snow. Do you want the truce or not?”

“‘Course I do,” I blurt, a little too quickly. 

My brain must be fried from exhaustion if it’s agreeing to do this. With _Baz Pitch._ With my nemesis.

Baz stands, picks up his wand, and points it at me.

“Oi!” I shout, jumping up from my seat. My chair topples over and the baby whimpers. We both freeze and watch with bated breath as it rolls onto its back and settles back down.

Baz rubs his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. “I’m not going to curse you, Snow. Look, we can swear it. With magic.”

He holds out his right hand and I hesitate for a second before taking it. His grip is deathly cold. I meet his grey eyes and feel him tap the tip of his wand against our joined hands. _“_ **_An Englishman’s word is his bond!_ ** _”_

* * *

** Baz **

If I thought watching Snow with a baby was bad for my poor queer heart, it’s nothing compared to having a sleepy, showered (thankfully) Simon Snow crawl into my bed after a long night of chaotic parenting and settle himself amongst my blankets, promptly falling asleep as if he weren’t lying next to his mortal enemy and a suspected vampire. (Apparently our mutual paranoia doesn’t extend to traumatic 3am demon-baby adventures.)

It didn’t matter how much I pressed myself away from him, I could still feel his heat everywhere, the smell of his blood and _him_ so close and incredibly intoxicating.

I wanted to get up and leave. I wanted to pull him closer and bury my face in his hair. I wanted to stay awake and document every last moment of this one and only chance at sleeping in the same bed as Simon Snow, close enough that his breath was dancing across my face—but I was too exhausted to last any longer.

Snow was in the shower by the time I woke up—which I found strange, considering he never showers in the morning, and we both cleaned up last night—so I allowed myself a few stolen moments to roll over into the dip where his body had been, revelling in the leftover warmth and scent like the disturbed, besotted creature that I am. 

Now, I find myself watching Snow mindlessly trying to assemble a pushchair on our bedroom floor. He’s so daft that I’m actually a little worried he’s going to poke his own eye out. (He’s already put a dent in the bedroom wall, Crowley knows how.)

“There’s too many pieces, I think,” he mutters. “Too many of these green bits and not enough of those white poles.”

“Why don’t you just let me spell the pushchair together, Snow?”

He looks up and scowls at me. “Because that’s cheating, Baz.”

I roll my eyes. “How is it cheating if this is a Magickal school and that’s a Magickal baby?”

“I…” Snow casts a helpless look at the bits and pieces of pushchair strewn about the floor. “Whatever. You do it. I don’t plan on missing breakfast. Today’s crumpets.”

And with that, he grabs his bag and leaves. 

The baby and I stare at each other.

“You still smell awful,” I tell it.

It’s terribly cute. It gives me this stubborn look, exactly like how Snow does—juts its chin out and everything. I didn’t even know babies could _do_ that.

“Come on, then.” I pick up the baby carefully, somewhat afraid of it. “Let’s get you a bath.”

I carry the baby to the ensuite and set it on the toilet lid, then strip my shirt off. (I know from experience I might get splashed quite a bit.) The baby starts wailing immediately and I check over my shoulder to make sure it hasn’t rolled off the side. It extends desperate arms towards me, so I groan and scoop it up with one arm.

I run the sink taps, checking the water temperature how Daphne taught me when the twins were first born. The baby wriggles in my arm and starts to glow purple.

What have I done now?

The water rises quickly and I turn off the tap. Or at least, I attempt to. The handle seems to be stuck. 

This was probably Snow’s doing.

I juggle the baby into the crook of my arm and pick up my wand with my left hand. **_“Stem the flow!”_ **It’s a handy spell for household leaks, but completely backfires now—the water begins pouring out of the tap at an even faster rate.

 _“Curses,”_ I mutter. 

The baby is turning red with the effort of crying, clawing at my arm. I watch in exasperation as the water tumbles over the edge of the sink and spills onto the floor, soaking through the tips of my monogrammed slippers. **_“Dry as a bone!”_ **I cast. 

Nothing happens. The baby screams louder and glows a brighter shade of purple. It doesn’t seem to like my magic. (As I’ve found out the hard way.) (The vomit-paved way.)

The water spreads across the floor and seeps toward the door to our room. _No, no, no…_

I set my wand down and grab the baby with two hands, holding it out in front of my face. “Stop crying,” I plead. “And stop glowing, for Morgana’s sake.”

It just cries harder, snot dripping. This isn’t working. _Think,_ what does Daphne do when Magnus kicks up a fuss? I picture her walking around the house, bouncing the baby gently, or going for a drive. And then I remember Snow doing the same yesterday, how he so easily got the baby to laugh…

Oh, Merlin.

The word “playtime” beats an ominous rhythm behind my eyes.

It’s lucky no one else is around to see this, or I’d never recover my dignity.

I smile at the baby as best as I can, though it’s likely more of a grimace, and lift it in the air. “One, two, three… take-off!” 

It stops crying, cautiously, as if this is a test to see if I can do the aeroplane game as well as Snow does. (I’m determined to show him up.)

I swing the baby to the left—“Nnnnnyuuuum”—and then to the right—“nnnnyuuummmm!” Miraculously, it starts laughing gleefully. It’s catching; I find myself laughing as well as I fly the baby around the bathroom in a circle.

By the time I look down again, I find the water has gone. Nothing but puddles in my slippers as evidence that the ordeal had even happened at all. 

I don’t dare spell the baby clean, so I cautiously fill the sink again (the taps work properly this time), and bathe it the Normal way. Besides it making a sudden grab for my nose and attempting to tug it down my face, the bathing goes smoothly. The baby snuggles, warm and damp and gurgling, into my bare chest as I towel it off. 

Afterwards, I dress both the baby and myself—I try not to feel too soft when I catch how our outfits match in the mirror—and spell the pushchair together with a quick “ **_The whole is equal to the sum of its parts!”_ **

There. Much better than putting it together the Normal way. (I’m not a savage.) (Unlike Snow, who I’m pretty sure _is_ half savage.)

I float the pushchair down the stairs of Mummers House, cradling the baby in one arm and feeling quite confident that I’ll pass this assignment after all. It’s going much more swimmingly now I’m in charge, of course. I should never have given Snow all of that responsibility in the first place; Crowley knows he can barely look after himself most days, let alone keep another human alive.

Merlin. When did I start thinking of this thing as _alive?_ Well, I suppose it’s just as alive as I am; just as much of a person.

I place the baby in its pushchair, making sure I strap it in tightly—who knows what havoc it could get up to when it’s out of sight—and start towards the Weeping Tower.

I’m not far into my journey when the pushchair starts to wobble, veering off to the right. I stop and check the wheels. My spellwork was perfect; I don’t understand what could have gone wrong. Maybe Snow did something to it earlier with his haphazard assembly attempt.

I start walking and it happens again—the pushchair veers sharply to the right and I stumble and lose my grip. Before I have a chance to reach for the handles or regain my footing, the pushchair takes off at speed down the pathway.

Oh, fuck it all.

I jog after it but quickly speed up into a run when I realise it’s not stopping. This isn’t just a shoddy wheel or a precarious wind, this is clearly some sort of devilish trick! Crowley. Here I was thinking we’d made headway with each other this morning, reached some kind of mutual understanding. _I made aeroplane noises for it!_

Even at my usual pace, I can’t keep up with this pushchair, which apparently doubles as a sports car. It’s heading straight for the Wavering Wood, so I lean into my vampire speed just a little, mindful that there are other students who could be watching on the grounds—not that they’re providing me with any help right now. I’ll be the subject of mockery for weeks after this. 

At the edge of the Wood, I think I’ve almost caught the pushchair when it suddenly takes a sharp left and speeds into the trees. I chase it into a large clearing, where it screeches to a halt a few paces away from none other than Simon Snow.

_Did that bloody half-wit summon it here?_

He’s swinging the Sword of Mages around dangerously, lifting it over his head before bringing it down again and again in a vicious arc against a large oak tree. His blazer has been discarded on the forest floor in a heap and his shirt is soaked through with sweat. I watch the muscles in his back shift under his shirt, his biceps contracting from his efforts.

He strikes a deafening blow against the trunk of a tree and a squirrel escapes from a nearby bush.

“What has the fauna ever done to you, Snow?” I sneer derisively. I feel horrifyingly warm in the face, and not just from running.

Snow freezes mid-swing and wobbles a little from the effort. I step forward and clutch the pushchair handles instinctively, all too aware of how close he is to the baby without realising. 

He lowers the sword slowly. “What are you doing out here, Baz?” he asks, bewildered as he registers our sudden appearance. “Surely that buggy isn’t made for off-roading?”

I roll my eyes at him. “I thought _you_ summoned us here.”

“Why would I do that?” he asks me, tilting his head in an endearing display of confusion.

“Well, why are you out here hacking trees to death? Do you enjoy pissing off the dryads?” I retort.

A whimper sounds off from below us, then the telltale buildup sobs to a full-on wail. Simon immediately drops to his knees in front of the pushchair.

“Hey! Hey! It’s alright, look…” And then the blasted idiot actually holds up his sword, hilt first, towards the baby!

“DON’T GIVE THE SWORD TO THE BABY, SNOW!” I bellow. 

Predictably, the baby erupts into an ear-splitting scream.

“I wasn’t going to! I was just showing it to the bloody thing!” Snow shouts at me, trying to be heard over the baby’s wails.

“You’re a fucking nightmare, Snow!” I yell.

“ _Me?_ You’re the one who shouted and set it off!”

I glare at him in disbelief. “Because you were about to hand a 6 month-old baby a _weapon!”_

“I _wasn’t,”_ he insists. “I told you! I was just showing it to her. I even held it out hilt-first!”

He’s technically correct, but I can’t back down now. His earlier display of Herculean efforts with his sword has left me feeling particularly antsy.

“You’re even more of a thickheaded imbecile than I thought if you believe putting a sharp object anywhere near a baby is a good idea,” I snap.

Snow growls at me as his magic leaks to the surface, thick and overpowering. Even through the hood of the pushchair I can see the baby begin to glow bright purple. We exchange a look of mutual dread and slowly back away in case it decides to explode. (Who knows what that little monster is capable of?)

“We have to get it to stop crying,” I hiss. “Before it starts another merwolf battle royale.”

Before we get a chance to try, large grey clouds roll in overhead at supernatural speed. Snow and I both look up in time for large droplets of rain to begin falling onto our faces. We both catch each other’s eyes again as the skies crack open and rain starts coming down in buckets.

The baby is favouring water today, it seems. Fucking perfect.

Snow and I stare at each other in shock as the rain pelts down, plastering my hair against my forehead and flattening Snow’s curls into his eyes. 

The baby wails, summoning a clap of thunder.

* * *

** Simon **

I felt strange when I woke up this morning. The first thing I noticed was that I was a little tired—although my sleep-addled brain couldn’t remember why—and then my eyes adjusted and I realised that the room was back to front. My whole body went stiff, thinking maybe the baby had somehow dropped me into an alternate reality, until I felt movement next to me, followed by a breathy sigh…

 _Baz_.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, scared to move for fear of waking him. 

It had seemed like an easy enough idea at three in the morning—sharing the only free bed with Baz—but right then my skin had felt too tight, my muscles too tense. My heartbeat was hammering and the sweating in my palms had nothing to do with the three stupid layers of blankets Baz had insisted on using.

He was sleeping and he couldn’t hurt me there, what with the Anathema, so I didn’t understand why my body was strumming with fear. I still don’t.

The adrenaline had caused other… issues… so I inched out of the bed as slowly as I could, trying not to jostle the mattress and praying to Morgana that Baz wouldn’t wake and catch me. (Which, let's be honest, would have been a real shite way to start my morning.)

My muscles felt much more relaxed after I took my time in the shower, but I still felt agitated. Trying to build the buggy with Baz breathing down my neck felt like the last straw.

I didn’t go to breakfast. I went for a walk that turned into a run that turned into me hacking away at trees in a clearing in the woods.

And still I couldn’t just _let it go._

By the time Baz appeared and started laying into me I had worked up such an almighty sweat that I’m almost thankful for this cold rain.

But this situation is still doing nothing to settle my nerves.

The baby is screaming, Baz looks like he’s three seconds away from throttling me, and I’m not entirely convinced that this isn’t somehow all my fault.

I sheathe my sword with a flick of my wrist and unbuckle the baby. I lift it into my arms, but it immediately reaches out for Baz. What–

It doesn’t even like him! I’m the one that bonded with it, what with all the “chest-to-chest” garb Penny was spouting. I wore a cherry-patterned sling, for Merlin’s sake!

The baby squeals and thrusts its little arms out desperately. “Ba,” it cries. “Ba-ba!”

Siegfried and fucking _Roy,_ this must be some sort of joke. _Ba-ba?_

“Did it just–” Baz says, face twisting in mortification.

“Couldn’t have been...”

“Coincidence,” he dismisses. “Babies spew nonsense syllables all the time, my siblings did it too.”

The boy Formerly Known As Baz casts a wild look at the baby, who’s still reaching for him and crying. He scowls at it, like it’s personally offended him by giving him a baby name.

With the rain plastering his hair like that and running in rivulets down his neck, soaking through his clothes, he should look pathetically sodden. But no, he just looks kind of… dramatic, and brooding. 

I hand him the baby and it stops crying for all of five seconds, then begins wailing again and reaches towards me. I brace myself for the inevitable baby name, but it never comes. Baz raises an eyebrow, managing to look smug. _Look, Snow, I got a name and you didn’t._

Well, it’s not like _Ba-ba_ is anything to write home about. 

I put out my arms wordlessly and Baz passes me the baby. “Everything’s okay, baby,” I soothe. 

Everything is definitely not okay. Another clap of thunder booms overhead and the baby screams right along until it’s red in the face. Fuck!

I bounce it up and down, desperately. “Please, come on,” I beg. I jerk my chin at the neon parent pack, which has been slung around the buggy handles. “Baz, the bottle–”

Another thunderclap above, and it seems to start raining _harder,_ impossibly. Baz tosses me the full bottle with an uncharacteristically frantic gesture, and I catch it in midair.

The baby grabs it with two hands and hurls it into the fucking woods.

“For fuck’s sake–”

“BA-BA!” the baby screams.

I thrust it at Baz, who holds it as far away from his body as possible. The baby squirms around, causing him to nearly drop it, then makes a grabbing motion at me. It cries, and there’s a flash of lightning, followed by another burst of thunder.

“It wants you!” Baz yells. His face is lit dramatically, for half a second, by another streak of lightning, his angles and shadows sharp. And then it’s gone, and the rain softens his features.

“No, it wants you!”

“Take it,” he says, shoving the baby at me. It looks so angry; I must’ve seen that expression on Baz’s face a thousand times.

But now it won’t come to me, just clings weirdly to Baz’s arms. And it keeps crying, looking between us.

I inch towards Baz, closer than I would normally dare, until we’re shoulder to shoulder. “What are you doing?” he demands.

He’s still holding the screaming baby out, gingerly. I cup its back in one hand, laying my fingers on top of Baz’s (there’s no other space), and pull it towards me—towards our chests. Now we’re both holding it, sort of. 

“It wants both of us,” I say.

The baby stops screaming. The rain starts to slow.

Baz’s wet shoulder presses against mine, and I feel how cold he is through my shirt. He’s so close that his wet hair drips down onto my cheek. He shivers, and it runs right through me.

“I suppose it did,” he says quietly.

The rain patters softly now onto the forest floor. It’s hushed and everything smells like earth. The baby, of course, is fast asleep in our arms. (Merlin, in _our_ arms.)

Well. This got awkward fast.

Our hands are tangled together. My left hip is flush with his right, and our legs are touching from knee to ankle. I’ve never willingly been this close to Baz (I was afraid he might bite me or something) but it’s not as awful as I’d imagined. I’ve got him right where I want him. He can’t go off plotting or being evil when he’s here, next to me—he can’t even move, he’s holding a baby.

And he’s looking at the baby with an expression in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. Something soft and so very un-Baz-like. He shakes his head at it and brushes a dark curl off its forehead. It’s almost tender. 

“Well,” I finally say, clearing my throat. “It’s, um– it seems to be asleep. So, uh.” 

“Right. Yes,” Baz says, suddenly businesslike, handing me the baby and stepping away. He clears his throat. “It seems my truce proposition has been effective in rescuing our grade.” 

I roll my eyes at him. Pompous prick.

He doesn’t bolt straight to class, as I expected (we’re definitely late); he just swipes wet strands of hair back from his face and then peels his blazer off. 

His button-up is white, completely soaked through, and plastered to his chest. He scowls at his tie and wrings the water out of it, then spells himself dry. He turns the wand on me but I refuse—I hate it when he spells me. (Feels like liquid smoke in my mouth.) 

Baz automatically points his wand at the baby and I reach out to push it away with one hand. “Don’t spell the baby!”

He looks stricken, then immediately sobers, lowering his wand. “Right.”

Baz Pitch telling me I’m right. What a day it’s shaping up to be.

I dig a towel out of the parent pack and towel off its curly hair. I wrap it like a burrito, then lay in the buggy. “We’re late to class,” Baz says.

I start pushing the baby out of the Woods. “Can’t be helped.”

When we reach the edge of the forest, the sun is blinding. The sky is a bright, clear blue, no sign of clouds anywhere. People are studying under trees, enjoying the beautiful weather—no sign that there was a thunderstorm just ten minutes earlier.

I’m soaked and the buggy’s soaked, but the clouds have cleared off the Wood like nothing happened at all. Even Baz looks perfectly normal, after his drying spell—not a hair out of place. (Typical.) 

“So that was the baby then,” I say. “The baby made it rain on just us.”

“And while we’re pointing out the obvious, the sky is blue,” Baz drawls.

“Merlin, I just meant– I mean, this thing is powerful! And completely uncontrollable!”

Baz hitches an eyebrow up. “Remind you of someone, Snow?”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not how the spell works. If we had a baby for real, maybe it’d get my magic sure, but I don’t think that should’ve happened with this one.” I pass him the buggy as we near the building. “Anyway. Class time. It’s all yours.”

* * *

** Baz **

I haven’t been able to focus for a second in class because the only thing running through my mind on repeat is: _if we had a baby for real._

Simon Snow doesn’t think before he speaks half the time; he’s such an utter dimwit that he’ll spew statements like that casually, not understanding the implications at all.

_If we had a baby for real._

The chances of that are below zero. I try to pay attention to my studies, but I keep glancing down at the fake child sleeping peacefully in its pushchair beside my desk.

Blue eyes. Dark curls. An unfortunate lack of freckles.

A baby that will never be ours. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All hail the mighty Rat Messiah

**  
** ** Day 3: ****Thursday, Continued**

** Simon**

The baby must be tired from, well, creating a major weather event, so it just keeps sleeping throughout the evening. Baz passes me the buggy after class with a curt nod and the professional air of handing off a briefcase. (Then he ruins the drama of it all by adding some commentary about my hair looking like wet candy floss.)

Penny has her baby sat next to her when I slide onto the bench for tea. She’s propped up a picture book in front of it, and it’s sucking on its dummy and staring blankly at the colourful pages. 

“Does it even know how to read?” I ask as a way of greeting.

“I want to start my baby early.” Penny looks up at me from her own book. “You look a fright, Simon.”

“Yeah, well.” I tip my head at the baby. “It’s been a nightmare, honestly.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Because of Basil?”

“No!” I say, too quickly. “I mean, yes. He always pisses me off and the baby hates my magic and– well, that’s not it, anyway. We made a truce.”

“You made a _truce?_ With Basil?” Penny asks incredulously. She looks around, as if to check that the world is still the right way up.

“We had to! We wouldn’t pass the assignment otherwise,” I mumble.

She nods in approval. “It seems like a smart move. So what’s the issue, then?”

“It’s”—I point at the baby, which looks nothing but angelic right now as it sleeps—“the thing is a little devil! Hasn’t yours been… doing crazy magic and all?”

“Babies can’t do magic,” she says flatly. 

“No, like.” I tug at my hair and describe some of the crazy things the baby's done, aware of how ridiculous I sound.

“That’s not normal,” Penny says slowly. “Our baby bounced once, when Rhys dropped it, but that’s all.” I glance sideways at her baby. It’s taken the book and placed it on top of its head, like a pointy hat. But it isn’t setting anything on fire.

“I mean, I’ve never had to deal with Magickal babies before.”

“Basil would know,” she says. “Why haven’t you gone to Madam Bellamy?”

“S’pose I should.” 

And that’s how I find myself at Madam Bellamy’s office after teatime, baby in tow. I try to wake it, but it’s fast asleep. Just my luck—when I’m trying to make a claim about how devilish it is, it finally decides to be well-behaved.

She’s grading papers with an honest-to-magic _feathered quill_ when I come in. “Good evening, Mr Snow,” she says, looking up. “How can I help you?”

I push the buggy towards her desk. “We need a new baby. That is, my partner and I.” Then I realise she might not know who I’m paired with. “I mean Baz. Basilton Pitch.”

She looks amused. “I’m aware who your partner is. It would have been hard not to notice your little mishap at the football match.”

My face burns red. “Right. Okay. Well.” I pick the baby up out of its buggy. “The baby– um. This _fake_ baby—I think it might be broken.”

“How so?”

“Well, it floats…”

She raises her eyebrows. “It’s a Magickal baby, that’s to be expected.”

“No, I mean– it was sick on Baz, and the sick just kept growing! He had to burn his shirt.”

She still looks sceptical.

“It disintegrates all its bibs! And yesterday! Yesterday it made slime come out of the bathroom sinks! And, and–” I sound like a crackpot. “And then it made a thunderstorm today, in the Wavering Wood!” 

Madam Bellamy gives me a scolding look. “Why would you take the child into the Wavering Wood?”

“I… it was an accident?” I sigh. “Please. It keeps sending its bottles off to alternate dimensions. I think it might be possessed by a demon or something. We’ve barely had any sleep.” 

She shuffles through a stack of papers until she finds the one she’s looking for. “You and Mr Pitch have not been excelling at this assignment. In fact, you’ve had the most transgressions out of anyone in the class.”

“What?!”

She fixes me with a green-eyed stare. “Just know that this plea to save your grade is not going to work. The only way to recover marks in this assignment is to properly care for the child.”

“We are, I swear!” I protest. “But the baby! It flew down to the moat! Literally! Out of our window! And fought _merwolves!”_

“I’m aware you and your partner have a long history of hostility, but inventing stories is not going to get you out of this task!” she says sternly.

I take a deep breath. “I’m not trying to get out of it.”

“It’s not the first time you’ve done this, Mr Snow. I seem to recall you telling half the school your roommate was a vampire in a vain attempt to switch rooms…”

“He is,” I insist automatically, “but that’s not the point.” The baby squirms in my arms, and I put it back down in its buggy. “Can we at least have a new cot-thing?”

“What happened to your Moses basket?”

“The baby broke it,” I say. “Smashed it to bits in the middle of the night.”

“Right, because it’s half-orc,” she says dryly. _I think that’s the first time she’s used sarcasm…_ I must really be pushing her buttons.

“I’m serious!”

She turns back to her papers. “You must deal with the consequences of your actions, Mr Snow,” she says airily. “That’s the entire point of the assignment.”

I can sense I’m not getting anywhere with arguing, so I just leave. 

I’m expecting Baz to go mental when I tell him that we’ll have to share a bed again tonight, but weirdly, he doesn’t seem _too_ put out at the idea. He just sneers at me, then follows it up with a scathing comment about my _‘deafening mouth_ _breathing’_ before going to the ensuite.

He’s surprising me with his dedication to this truce; doesn’t want to be the first to crack, I guess. 

I wait for Baz to climb into bed first, watching as he moves close to the wall. “I suppose you want that side,” he says, gesturing to the side closer to my own bed. (He’s right.)

By the time I crawl in beside him, as close to the edge as I dare, he’s already asleep—or he could be pretending, I guess.

* * *

  
I wake to darkness outside, the soft snores of the baby filling the room. I slowly blink open my eyes and the shapes of the room seem softened and blurred, like I’m still trapped in the haze of my dream.

My arms are wrapped around Baz. His hair’s in my mouth. My arm is thrown heavily over his body, fingers splayed on a stripe of bare stomach. He breathes so slowly. I always run hot in the night, but his skin is nice and cool. (Because he’s a vampire.) 

Maybe I _am_ still asleep. Because he’s here, not hurting anyone. Not hurting _me._ And he seems like he could slip through my arms any moment and disappear. Like a shadow. Like a dream.

I go back to sleep.

* * *

  
  


** Day 4: ****Friday**

** Baz**

I wake wrapped in Simon Snow’s arms. 

It’s still early; the sun has barely risen, but what sliver there is casts golden hues across the right side of his face. His mouth is open, he’s breathing pretty loudly—and he definitely has morning breath—but I don’t remember the last time I felt this elated.

How many times have I fantasised about this? 

My pyjama top has ridden up during the night and, in my sleepy haze, I allow myself a moment to sink in and enjoy the feeling of his warm arms pressed against the skin of my hips.

I’ve woken with a... slight inconvenience, so I attempt to direct my thoughts towards The Mage and his pathetic moustache instead as I slip out of the bed, careful not to wake Snow. (He’d probably accuse me of some evil plot if he found us in such a compromising position anyway.)

I watch as Snow smacks his lips noisily and reaches for the pillow I was using, pushing his face into the fabric. (I’m sure he'll drool onto it.) (I don’t mind.) I stand there shamelessly for a long moment, wondering how and why in Morgana’s name I ever convinced myself to leave that bed. Then I turn away, towards Snow’s bed.

The baby’s awake but silent, blinking up at me with enormous blue eyes. It opens its mouth, round, like a little bird. “I suppose you want to be fed,” I grumble. “That’s meant to be Snow’s job, you know.” 

It giggles and splays a small, sticky hand across my face when I pick it up. 

“No, I will not play the aeroplane game with you again,” I whisper. I take a bottle and a fresh babygrow from the parent pack—this one is in Watford colours as well, but plaid—and carry it to the bathroom.

My plans for a quiet, uneventful morning full of self-loathing and being wretchedly in love grind to a halt… exactly when the baby decides they do. That is, halfway through my shower. 

It’s been calmly drinking its milk, nestled in the sink, gripping the bottle in two hands. And then, suddenly, it stops and stares at me. 

I freeze with shampoo in my hair. “Don’t you dare try anyth–” is all I manage to get out before it bursts into tears and begins to glow bright purple. The sound is deafening at this hour of the morning. 

“What is it now?!” I cry. 

The baby keeps hanging onto its milk, sobbing around the teat, as the bottle begins to swell. It _grows._ And _grows_.

And– fucking _Crowley._ I’m completely naked behind the curtain with a soap beard and moustache I created in a vain attempt to entertain the baby a few minutes ago. I frantically scrub the shampoo out of my hair.

The bottle is now the size of the baby itself and it shows no sign of stopping. Gallons and gallons of warm milk slosh around inside. The bottle swells until it’s the size of a cat, then a dog…

I watch it tumble to the floor as if in slow motion. It bounces once, twice; then the cap crashes on the tiles and milk explodes _everywhere._

“For the love of magic!” I huff. I finish rinsing myself off as quickly as possible, forgoing my conditioner—I’m going to pay for that later—and leap out of the shower. I scoop up the baby, rocking it and desperately attempting to hush its wailing as I tiptoe around the ensuite, avoiding the milk splatters.

And then of course there’s a banging on the door. “Baz!”

“Everything’s fine!” I yell.

“Why is there milk on the floor?”

“I’ve got it under control!”

“No, you haven’t!”

“...No, I haven’t!”

Simon laughs a little hysterically. “Can I come in?”

“No!”

“Why?”

“I’m… indisposed!”

“Does that mean starkers?”

“Shut up, Snow!”

* * *

** Simon**

I bump into Madam Bellamy on my way out of the dining hall after lunch; which is unfortunate because the baby is, of course, being spectacularly well-behaved right now. Bellamy gives me a smug smile, and I grumble at the baby. “You never do stuff when you’re supposed to,” I tell it.

I stayed behind for extra servings of roast beef, so by the time I’m done eating, everyone is already sitting out on the lawn, letting their babies play together and making the most of the sunshine.

I scan the crowd and spot Baz sitting with Dev and Niall. Their baby—a cute, chubby thing with a unibrow and a mohawk—has been sick all down Niall’s shirt, and Baz is watching them both struggle to clean it with a look that I can only describe as sadistic amusement.

That’s a bit unfair, I think, given how frazzled Baz was after his disaster in the shower this morning. 

I keep walking and plonk myself down next to Penny and Rhys. We watch as their little’un rolls around on the grass, sucking on its dummy. It seems to be enjoying itself, so I unbuckle mine and Baz’s baby from her buggy and lay her down on the ground beside Penny’s. 

Our baby turns her head and watches this new potential rival suspiciously, seeming to size it up. For a second I’m genuinely afraid for the other baby’s safety; but then she grabs onto her own feet, giggles, and begins to roll around as well.

Penny is currently giving Rhys a lecture on why baby classes labelled “Mommy & Me” should officially be changed to “Parent and-slash-or Guardian & Me,” so I decide not to interrupt. You never interrupt Penny mid-rant unless you want your mouth spelled shut. 

Aggie is sitting a little ways over from us, humming a pretty tune to the baby in her lap while she brushes its blonde hair with a comb. _“Destiny”_ is wearing a pink dress with bumblebees on it and white frilly knee-high socks. 

I’m thinking over the fact that babies must like music too when Baz walks over to us and an idea occurs to me.

“Baz! Maybe you could play the baby your violin?”

Baz looks mortified at my suggestion as he sits down opposite me, the babies rolling around happily between us. “I wouldn’t let that weapon of mass destruction go anywhere _near_ my violin.”

That disappoints me. “But it would be cute?” I try to reason.

“The baby or me playing?” Baz asks smugly, arching an eyebrow at me.

I bluster, feeling heat colour my cheeks. He’s such a git. He always knows exactly how to get under my skin.

“The baby _while_ you’re playing,” I grumble at him, lamely.

We both watch as she yanks the dummy straight out of Rhys and Penny’s baby’s mouth and sends it sailing behind her into a hedge. As it makes contact, the entire hedge vanishes into the ether.

“The answer is definitely no,” Baz tells me firmly.

* * *

** Simon**

I don’t know what to do. The little’un won’t stop squealing. I know she’s a human baby but she’s literally squealing, like a bloody pig. I’ve tried everything and nothing will make her shut up.

Baz and I had classes together for the rest of the day, so I know she was fine all afternoon: quiet as anything between classes, after tiring herself out on the grass. But now we’re back in the room and she won’t. Shut. Up. My ears are going to fall off if I can’t get her to quieten down soon.

I put her down in my bed about ten minutes ago and I _would_ lie down next to her in an attempt to soothe her, but I’m terrified she’ll somehow light my clothes on fire or drown me in slime.

Merlin, I just want her to sleep. _I_ just want to sleep! I know it’s only 5pm but it’s been four days of this—and for all his talk of cooperation, Baz isn’t currently here to help with this mess.

He told me he needed to go to the library after dinner, but I’m almost certain he did it to get out of bath time.

When Baz eventually opens the door, I can track on his face the exact second he crosses the threshold of the silencing spell and is assaulted by the sound. “Crowley, Snow!” he shouts over her screams. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” I insist. “I tried everything but she won’t stop crying and asking for _you._ But of course you decided to disappear.”

“What do you mean, asking for me?”

“Y’know…” I send him a pointed look. “Your name. Ba-ba.”

“You’re impossible.” The baby screeches again, and he groans. “I’m so sick of this.”

“So am I,” I say. “It’s exhausting.”

“Did you try feeding it?” he suggests. I nod. “Walking it around?” I nod again. “Throwing it out the window?”

“Baz!”

He heaves an almighty sigh, glances at me, glances at the baby, and seems to come to a decision. He strides over to my bed, leans in, and scoops her up into his arms. He begins to rock her back and forth, and her squealing quiets. This didn’t work for me, but Baz…

I’m transfixed as I watch him shift her into the crook of his right elbow. He runs his pointer finger from the middle of her forehead down her nose while he coos, “It’s okay, little puff.”

She reaches out one hand and takes hold of Baz’s pinkie finger. Her other arm extends towards me, and when I give her my hand she wraps all her tiny fingers around one of mine. I’m forced to move closer.

She hiccups a little while she stares at Baz, wide eyes in my shade of blue, before she quietens down fully and eventually drifts off to sleep.

He’s so good at this. Who would have thought that fatherhood would have suited The Great and Villainous Basilton Pitch?

Baz catches me staring and looks away quickly. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks almost bashful.

“You’re good with her,” I say, stating the bloody obvious.

He grunts but eventually responds quietly, “I help my stepmother with my siblings whenever I’m home. You learn a few things.”

“Yeah?” I ask. I don’t really know what I’m asking, I just want him to keep talking to me like this. Quiet and low so as not to wake her, with something like affection in his eyes when he gazes down to check she’s still okay.

I like Baz like this. I like seeing Baz be soft.

I try not to think about how soft he looked this morning when I woke up with my arms wrapped around his waist...

“If you, you know um, wanted to– well. Teach me, that is...” I trail off as he meets my eyes again and nods, once.

Baz clears his throat. “I’m sure that’s the right thing to do,” he states brusquely, “in the interest of our truce and subsequent grade.”

“Right. Yeah. Yes.” 

I agree. The grade.

* * *

** Baz**

Snow is fast asleep in my bed by the time I finish my homework, and I can’t bring myself to crawl in next to him after our afternoon of co-parenting. 

I thought I’d drawn strict lines in my head when we agreed to a truce of cooperation, but it’s hard to keep up walls when you’re teaching the unrequited love of your life how to care for a baby. (A baby that looks like an exact blend of you and said unrequited love.)

He’s a lot better with her than he thinks he is, once he gets past his nerves. After dinner, I showed him how to bathe her properly and the best way to change her clothes; I shared with him the ways in which my siblings like to be carried and how I rock them to sleep.

I almost fainted when Snow decided it was time for their playtime together. I took one look at Snow pulling stupid faces at her, trying to make her laugh, and fled to the bathroom.

I don’t think it’s dramatic to say that this exquisite disaster of a man will be the death of me.

By the time I plucked up the courage to return, Simon was rocking her to sleep. He was reassuring her that he was there, just like I had taught him a few hours before. She was grabbing onto his shirt tightly, his curls on her head in my colour crushed against his chest… and I decided that that was enough teaching for one day.

I watch him sleep for a while, because I can’t help but torture myself further, and decide that if I’m going to have to endure another night enveloped in Simon’s heat and smell, then it’s best to drink first. 

I notice the baby is wide awake as I prepare to leave—and who knows what trouble she could get into while Snow’s dead to the world—so I decide to bring her with me.

I dig Snow’s cherry-patterned sling out of the parent pack and strap her to my front. She still has that strange obsession with my nose; she grabs at it as we walk down the stairs and across the lawn. 

She falls silent when we enter the Catacombs, as if sensing the sacred hush, the chill that falls over this place. I turn down a corridor and roll up my sleeves. Unslinging the baby, I set her on top of a random tomb, against the wall. “Stay there, and don’t cause a fuss,” I instruct.

It’s a futile exercise, but maybe it’ll work, just this once.

I gather a few rats, keeping one eye on the baby, who is currently rolling on her back, like a stranded tortoise. I look away for half a second to drink—the last thing I need is her screaming in fear from the sight of my fangs—and when I glance back at the tomb, she’s gone.

Of course she’s gone.

I whip my head around desperately, then summon a flame and peer into the corners. “Demon?” I call. “Where’ve you gone?”

It’s completely silent. My heart pounds. She musn’t have crawled far; and I can’t imagine how Snow will react if he finds out I lost the baby in the fucking Catacombs. My footsteps echo as I sprint down the hallway, calling out for the baby. I pull up short when I see a series of shadows.

It’s the baby. She’s sat on the floor… and she’s surrounded by rats. At least ten of them, with more creeping up closer and closer. She’s clapping with a gleeful expression as they encroach, and then I notice that the rats are stepping in rhythm. Some of them are even standing up on their hind legs. They seem to be.... dancing for her? 

It’s positively horrifying. 

I make to tear her away from them, but stop when she starts giggling. A high pitched twinkle that makes my insides melt and an involuntary smile slip onto my own face. She laughs even louder and bounces along in time to the apparent Rat Dance.

She seems to enjoy playing with them, and as I look around I notice her laugh is attracting more and more, like some kind of Rat Messiah.

“Ba-ba!” she cries when she catches sight of me. She holds out a squirming, fat rat like a peace offering. “Ba!”

I squat next to her. I seem to be having a problem where my face won’t stop smiling.

“Thank you, little puff,” I tell her, politely, because at least one parent has to teach her manners and it sure as hell won’t be Snow.

I set the rat free, scoop up the baby, and lead us both to my Mother—rats trailing behind in a line after us, tripping over themselves to follow their cult leader.

I place her down on my Mother’s tomb and watch as she closes her eyes and yawns sleepily. 

“I’ve brought someone with me this time to meet you, Mother,” I begin. I look at her while I talk; she rubs at her eyes with tiny fists. “Well, I suppose she’s not actually a real person. More of an assignment… a charmed object. But. Well.”

The baby squirms atop the tomb, and I automatically take her into my arms and pull her close. “She’s been an absolute nightmare. And maybe I’m only getting attached because her disastrous qualities remind me of my partner’s…”

I run my fingers through the baby’s curls. “I have a newfound appreciation for how hard it must have been, Mother, taking care of me while maintaining your status as Headmaster of this school. It can’t have been easy.” The baby starts chewing on my collar, and I set her down on the tomb again. “Not that I was as demonic as this one.”

I don’t want to let the fondness in. She’s given me and Snow so much grief. Sleepless nights, uncleanable messes, more fights than we’ve had put together in the last two years… and yet.

Down here with my mother, things seem to make sense, if only for a few minutes.

“Being a parent must eclipse everything else,” I say. “And if I’ve only had this fake baby for a few days, and I feel like this, I don’t know how you must have…”

I swipe at my eyes. The baby won’t judge me.

“But you did it all,” I whisper. “You did it brilliantly. And I–”

I smell him before I see him. Snow enters _Le Tombeau des Enfants,_ his eyes lingering on the baby before settling on me. I hurriedly hide my face, trying to dry it quickly before turning back to him.

Snow’s hair is still mussed from sleep, his shirt is buttoned incorrectly, and the look in his eyes tells me he’s positively fuming. 

“You took our baby to the Catacombs and let it sleep on top of a COFFIN?!” he shouts. “Why aren’t you both in bed? What are you plotting?”

The baby starts wailing from being awoken and I want to snap at him that it’s not _a coffin_ , it’s my mother's tomb, but my brain is stuck on two other words instead.

_Our baby._

He’s full of rage but Simon definitely just referred to her as _Our. Baby._

It’s not good for me to be here. Fuck the grade. I need to look after my own sanity.

I push past him and hurry down the Catacomb corridors as quickly as I can, hoping the baby’s cries will muffle any sounds my feet are making on the dusty floor. I can hear him shouting and running after me but I continue my ascent. I can’t be around him right now. 

I stop dead when I realise that it’s only Simon’s voice I hear behind me, that there’s no crying child screaming in my wake. (And she _would_ be screaming—there’s no way she’d be calm during a situation like this.)

I turn on my heel just in time for Snow to crash into me. We collapse onto the ground and I hit the back of my head hard on the stone. My vision swims and I regain focus to a look of pure shock on Snow’s face, inches from my own.

“Get. Off.” I tell him in the deadliest voice I can muster.

Snow doesn’t move anything except his mouth, opening and closing it like a gaping fish and stuttering “U-um. I–, y-you–”

I know I should push him off me, but I don’t, because I’m enjoying the compromising position far too much—even if there is dust in my hair. (Because I’m disturbed.)

“The baby,” I say through gritted teeth.

Snow’s still just staring at me. “The–”

“Yes, the tiny human we’ve been tasked to take care of, in case you’ve forgotten,” I snarl, and finally extricate myself from his luscious body heat. 

“R– right.” 

We hurriedly retrieve the baby and begin the walk back to our room. Snow follows behind me, hanging his head like a wounded puppy. He’s not followed me down there for ages; not since fifth year, when I embarrassed myself and drunkenly sang to him about the plague.

I think I scared him, in all honesty.

I think he feels guilty, now.

“I– um. I saw the tomb was marked,” he mumbles. “You know. With. Erm. Your m-mum’s name.”

I don’t respond. He keeps up his bumbling anyway.

“...I didn’t realise you’d taken her to see your mother.”

“Is this stumbling confession meant to be an apology, Snow?”

He growls a little, tripping on the stairs up to our room. “Yeah, fine,” he admits. 

It’s grudging, but it’s something. So I accept it.

Later, when we’re lying in bed and Snow is pretending to be asleep next to me, I consider that maybe he was right to be suspicious (for once), having woken to both of us missing.

I can admit that I would have done the same, had the tables been turned.

In Snow’s bed, the baby gurgles and yawns. 

I scowl at it. “Goodnight, little gremlin.”

“Night,” Snow answers sleepily.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surely everyone knows how expensive silk is.

**  
** ** Day 5: ****Saturday**

** Baz**

Upon entering the room after breakfast, I am assaulted by the sight of Snow dressing our baby in what appears to be the lovechild of a potato sack and a troll’s bath towel.

“Snow, what on earth are you doing? The baby’s not wearing that, it’s revolting.”

He turns to me with a huge grin on his face. “Oh, Ebb gave it to me! She uses it for the baby goats. Thought we could put it on her, considering it’s the weekend and she doesn’t need to wear her Watford uniform onesie.”

Why is this imbecile so endearing?

_ “You _ wear your uniform on the weekends,” I point out. (He’s literally wearing it now. Although the top few buttons of his shirt are open and the collar’s all rumpled around his neck.) (It’s practically obscene.)

He ignores me and resumes cooing at her, bouncing her on his knee. I could stand here and watch him smooth down her black curls all day. It makes my knees weak.

“Crowley, don't tell me you've gotten attached to the bleeding thing?” I say, a little harsher than I intended.

He turns sharply to look at me and juts his chin out in defiance. “You were singing to her earlier, Baz.” 

He’s smirking at me, handsomely. Smug bastard. 

“I didn't want it to get angry and summon another monsoon.”

“She was asleep and you were singing to her like a mother hen!” 

The baby fusses a little at his raised voice and he pulls her into his chest and rocks her soothingly. Who knew this oaf could be so gentle?

“At any rate,” I raise my own voice now, so he knows I am not in the mood to undergo any further interrogation, “No child of mine would be caught dead in hand-me-down clothing. Especially after it's been on a bloody goat!” I stride over to him with my hand out. “Give her here.”

He raises both his eyebrows, still cradling the baby protectively. “Her?”

“Yes.” I’m not sure what he’s getting at.

“You called it a  _ her.” _

_ Oh.  _ Fuck.

I attempt to skillfully ignore his observation by bending down to the garish parent pack instead. “They must have given us other clothing. I’m not letting her absorb your awful fashion sense, Snow.”

“A-ha!” he shouts, springing up and pointing in my face. “You did it again!” I wince back, hitting my head on the pushchair handles.

“Did what?” I say, slapping his hand away. 

“Called it a  _ her.” _

“What would you prefer—I go back to  _ it?” _

“No,” he says. He looks down at the baby, pushing her hair off her forehead again. “She likes  _ her, _ I think.”

“She’s idiotic, Snow. She gets that from you.”

He scowls at me. “Yeah, and I wonder where she gets her grumpy, bitter mood from.”

I cross my arms. “And her quick temper, I suppose that’s from me as well? I don’t recall ever _going off._ But it seems the baby has. _Multiple_ _times_. And fighting anything that moves,” I continue. “It seems she inherited your utter lack of regard for personal safety.” 

I look around at the room, grasping for further insults, and my eyes land on Snow’s pile of dirty clothing at the foot of his bed. “And, she makes a mess of  _ everything,  _ which is certainly not from me–”

“Rats keep following her around after last night!” Snow shouts, interrupting me. “They’re everywhere! There’s only one of us who drinks rats here, and it’s  _ not me.”  _

As if to prove his point, a slithering pink tail disappears under our doorway. 

Is he really implying that the baby would have inherited my vampirism from the spell? Aleister Crowley, he’s a moron.

“This isn’t even our real baby, Snow. It can’t  _ inherit  _ any of our traits!” I pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. “This is nonsense.” 

Snow and the baby turn on me with identical stubborn expressions. 

“She’s got your hair,” he accuses.

“Physical traits were  _ part of the spell,  _ Snow! Anyway, she’s got  _ your  _ hair.”

“And your nose!”

“Well, she has  _ your _ moles!”

“Yeah? Well, her lips are all pouty, like yours!”

Colour rises in Snow’s cheeks, as I’m sure it would mine, if I had any blood to spare.

We glare at each other over the baby’s head. When did she start floating between us…? 

“Da-da!” she yells, her dummy falling from her mouth in the process. 

Snow and I both watch it tumble to the floor before he turns to me with panicked blue eyes. “Is that meant to be…”

I raise a mocking eyebrow. “Looks like she gave you a name after all.” (On the inside, I’m melting.)

Snow scowls. “Where did she even learn that?”

“It’s just babble,” I dismiss.

“Whatever you say, Ba-ba.” 

He tries to scoop up the baby, but she floats out of his grasp like a slippery helium balloon. She reaches for him, twisting until she’s upside down. “Da-da.”

(Why does  _ he _ get to be Da-da?)

“I’ve got you,” Snow says, holding his arms up to catch her. But she doesn’t come to him; she just keeps floating up, and up, and up. She hits the ceiling and bounces gently.

“C’mon,” he says, clicking his tongue like he’s beckoning a horse.

The baby, as it were, seems to be stuck up there.

“Great job, Snow,” I say flatly. 

“She’ll come down on her own,” he attempts. I don’t know who he’s trying to persuade: me, the baby, or himself. He stretches his arms a bit further up encouragingly.

She blinks down at us with huge eyes, looking alarmed. 

I sense a cry approaching.

I speak very, very softly, in an attempt not to startle her further. “Snow,” I say. “We have to keep her from glowing purple.”

He doesn’t move a muscle, just shifts his eyes to look over. “How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Thanks, you’re such a massive help–”

“Shh,” I say. We can’t spell her down, and I doubt we’ll be able to lasso her or something without making her upset. Which leaves getting her ourselves, somehow. She’s at least ten feet in the air, bobbing against our ceiling.

“I’m thinking–” Snow says.

“That must be difficult for you.”

“Shut up. I’m thinking we… climb up there somehow…”

“I can  _ Float like a butterfly,”  _ I offer.

“No, you can’t.” He frowns and finally lowers his arms, but the baby cries “Da-da” haplessly and he sighs and raises them again. He looks like an idiot. “Magic sets her off. Even if it’s not used on her.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“I’ve got an idea,” Snow says. He sounds so hesitant that I’m not sure I trust him.

“Should I be scared for my life?”

His eyes dart around the room before he seems to make a decision. He attempts to lower his arms, but the second he does, the baby bursts into tears.

“Fuck’s sake,” he groans. Her cries are growing higher and higher in pitch as she flails miserably on the ceiling. I can feel a migraine coming on. 

“Cover me for a sec!” he shouts at me. “I’m losing feeling in my arms!”

I raise my eyebrow at him but do as he says, far too exhausted to feel ashamed at following Snow’s orders. I follow the baby a little to the right as she bobs haphazardly. She pauses in her screaming, glances from my lifted hands to Snow’s fallen ones, and then continues wailing loudly. Perfect.

I’m starting to take it personally that the baby is this upset. Even though, technically, it’s all Snow’s fault.

Even worse, I’m starting to care about the little monster. Which means that every wail of hers sends another shard piercing through my heart. 

I watch as Simon shakes out his arms and does a completely unnecessary full body wiggle before holding up his arms again. “Shh,” he says. “Da-da’s coming to get you.”

I raise an eyebrow at him as I let my arms drop. “Really leaning into the Da-da thing, hm?”

“She likes it,” he says.

He steps up next to me, far too close for comfort. Blessedly, the baby falls silent, tears dribbling down her cheeks.

“What’s your master plan to retrieve the baby then, Snow? Before she decides to demolish the turret in an explosion of purple light, destroying our grade in the process?”

“Pick me up,” Snow says.

I blink. “I… beg your pardon?”

Snow turns to fully face me, his jaw set. “You have to lift me. Then I can reach the baby without using magic.”

“I’m not  _ lifting _ you–” I start to protest.

“Before you argue, I know you have vampire strength,” he declares. 

I stare at him with the most flat, sceptical expression I can muster.

“Just this once,” he says. “How else are we supposed to grab our baby?”

There is it again.  _ Our _ baby.

This moron is going to be the death of me.

I’ve no doubt I  _ could _ lift him, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it’s a good idea. “Why don’t you do the lifting?” I say. 

“You’re taller.”

“You’re the one who swings that damned sword around all day. I’m certain you’re strong enough to lift me, Snow.” (Crowley knows I’ve imagined it enough.)

Snow looks down at himself, as if just now noticing his perfectly toned biceps and broad shoulders. “S’pose I do have strong arms…” he says, and then  _ flexes.  _ I concentrate on not fainting. We’re standing much too close together.

“Lifting you is out of the question. It pains me to even be close to you, Snow,” I say, well aware that I’m being too defensive. 

He frowns. “Didn’t seem to have that problem last night.”

If I had enough blood in me to blush, I’d be red as Snow right now. 

He stammers as he realises what he’s said. “I mean– I didn’t mean– like– well, like  _ that–” _

We both look away from each other, unwilling to acknowledge our accidental spooning.

“Fine,” I finally concede. Anything to break this awful silence. “I’ll lift you. Turn around.”

The baby looks down on us curiously as we begin the spectacle that is me attempting to grasp Snow around the waist in a spot that isn’t ticklish. (Who would have guessed the Chosen One was ticklish?) 

Finally, my fingers clamp around his hip bones and I lean into my strength. He’s got a couple stones on me at least, and he’s dense, all muscle, but I lift him fairly easily. “Wicked,” he says.

“Shut up, Snow, or I’ll drop you on your head.” 

He carefully tugs the baby towards him and is about to fold her protectively in his arms, when she bursts into tears again and careens off toward the window. (Which is thankfully closed this time.)

Snow makes a wild grasp for her, teetering us dangerously backward. 

“Snow, don’t–”

“Fuck, are you–”

I barely have enough time to register the squish of the dummy beneath my right foot before I’m sliding on the rubber, both legs buckling under me as I lose my balance.

“No!” I find myself shouting in an incredibly undignified manner.

“Fuck!” 

Simon Snow crashes into me. 

And we plummet to the floor in a painful tangle of limbs. 

“Oof,” he groans.

“Get off,” I whine. He’s starfished on top of me like a heavy, delicious-smelling blanket. His face is buried somewhere in my shoulder.

“...baby,” he mutters.

_ Fuck.  _ “Where is she?”

He lifts himself in an attempt to clamber off me, but then I spot what’s bound to become a dire situation. I snatch his wrist in a death grip.

“Don’t. Move,” I hiss.

He bristles. “You just said–”

“Do  _ not  _ move, Snow.”

I keep a close eye on his back… where the baby has just floated down and slowed to a blissful stop. She’s perched delicately right between his shoulder blades. Calm, happy. Not glowing. Not crying. 

I stare at her. She stares back.

He attempts to peek over his shoulder. “Something’s on my back–”

“The baby!”

“Oh.” His chest is heaving. “Is she okay?”

“Stop breathing so much.”

“How can I  _ stop breathing–” _

“Just. Breathe slower.” 

He’s right in my face, trembling with the effort of hovering himself above me and trying to keep still. “What do we do?” he whispers. His breath smells like sour cherry scones. I could count every freckle on his face if I wanted to. My hand is still closed around his wrist.

I have no idea what to do. If we move, the baby will surely fall, attach itself to the ceiling again, or start screaming. 

Snow’s expression grows panicked before settling on mildly horrified. “What’s she doing, why’s it  _ wet–” _

I laugh. “I believe she’s trying to eat your hair.”

“What?!” His other arm, the one I’m not holding, flails to reach behind him, and he collapses right onto my chest. 

“Eurgh.” Snow spits out a mouthful of my hair.

“Trying it for yourself, Snow?”

He pushes himself up on one arm again. (Trying to get as far away from me as currently possible. I can’t blame him.) “Tastes like you smell.”

That has to be one of the strangest things he’s ever said to me. “What?”

“You know, like–” He sticks out his tongue again, as if trying to get it off– “trees and shit. And citrus.”

I close my eyes in exasperation. “Cedar and bergamot?”

“Yes!” he practically shouts. “That’s what Penny always says.”

I curl my lip. “Do you and Bunce often discuss my choices in toiletry products?”

“Uh, w- we,” he stammers, “n-no. I mean. I just. Well I– I told her– I mean. No!”

Knowing Snow, he’d claim the scent was noxious gas that I’d left to poison him in the shower.

The sweet scent of his blood this close, however…

It’s overwhelming my senses. I have to get him off me. 

“I’ve an idea. Hold still,” I say.

So of course, Snow wiggles on top of me in the most graceless manner possible. 

I think  _ very _ hard about The Mage and his preposterous moustache.

“Crowley, Snow, did you even hear me?” I snap. (It comes out a bit weaker than I’d intended.) “Don’t move.”

I carefully lift my arms, touching him as little as possible. (I’m afraid if I feel his biceps, I won’t be able to stop.) He shifts,  _ again.  _ “What are you doing?” he scowls.

“Do you want the blasted creature off of you or not?”

(I want  _ this _ blasted creature off of  _ me…) _

He swallows and won’t meet my eyes but mumbles, “Fine.” 

Snow shifts awkwardly again as I navigate my arms past his sides. I accidentally brush his left bicep and Snow’s eyes cut directly to mine. We stare at each other for an agonising second before I fix my face into a grimace, mirroring his expression, to make sure he knows that I am definitely  _ not _ enjoying this… this… pseudo-embrace. 

(I try not to think about how close my hands are to his delicious back muscles.)  _ (Think about Gareth’s belt buckle, think about Gareth’s belt buckle…) _

Once my arms have encircled him completely, I gently lift the baby under her arms.

I glance back at Snow to find him already looking at me.

“I’ve got her,” I whisper.

“What now?” he says.

I find I can’t move the baby to the side because his shoulders are too broad, but I don’t know how to  _ tell _ him that, so I say, “You’ll have to slide out.” 

His expression drops into disbelief. “Slide?”

“Trust me, Snow, I don’t want this any more than you do.”

“Considering I’m the one who has to  _ slide,  _ I think I’ve got the short end of the stick here,” he grumbles.

“You’re the one who’s been crushing my ribs for five minutes,” I hiss back.

Snow glares at me furiously for a moment before wrenching his gaze away. 

He slides. It’s a new kind of torture.

I relax my arms, letting the baby settle on my chest, only to find that she’s already asleep.

* * *

I escape to the ensuite under the guise of getting changed before Snow can see just how affected I’ve been from having him pressed on top of me.  _ (Mage’s moustache, Mage’s moustache…)  _

It’s been a long day, so I choose my long-sleeved silk pyjamas—they’re Mulberry, of course, my most comfortable pair—and upon reentering the room, I find Snow is in the corner, practicing his sword work and threatening to slice up half our furniture. 

I decide to study on my bed as a way to distract myself from spending the hour staring at his arms and incredibly toned thighs and grab my school books from my bag. I glance over at the baby on Snow’s bed. She seems to be stirring from her post-flying nap, so I lift her up and bring her with me, settling her down onto my lap.

I’m hesitant to leave her alone now.

I’m ten minutes into reading—and doing my best to block out Snow’s masculine grunts—when a little hand reaches up and grasps the right side of the book I’m holding. I barely have time to register the stubby little fingers before they pull harshly and the baby’s face is reaching up to meet it, mouth wide. I watch in shock as she starts chewing on the corner, dribble sliding down her chin.

I recoil on instinct and wrench the book from the baby’s mouth. She locks eyes with me as her lower lip wobbles.

“No, no, no!” I whisper. “Shhh, there’s a good girl!” I continue, pleadingly. I smooth her hair and pledge an oath to Merlin:  _ I’ll do anything you want, just please, don’t let this demonic thing light me on fire. _

She whimpers a little more but settles and closes her eyes. I watch her for a few minutes before judging it safe to return to my book. I lay a hand lightly across her forehead, my wrist pressing against her chin, hoping my presence will keep her settled.

I’ve barely glanced back at my book when I feel something damp press against my wrist. When I look down, I am met with a pound coin-sized hole in the fabric of my favourite pyjama shirt.

“Crowley, she’s gnawed a hole through my sleeve!” I gasp. I lift the baby off my lap and half-throw her down onto the bed in front of me in my panic; anything to get her away from me and my expensive clothing.

“Wha?” I hear Snow shout, but I’m frozen. I can’t respond. I can’t move. I’m stuck staring at the little hellhound in front of me, strings of red silk clinging to her lips as she giggles and claps.

Snow stumbles over—sword still in hand—and the saccharine smell of his sweat and blood fills my nostrils, snapping me back to the present. He glances at the baby and then my sopping wet sleeve, leaning in close to study the hole. 

He moves to grab hold of my wrist but I slap him away. (The last thing I need right now is a sweaty Simon Snow accosting me.)

He chuckles but tries to hide his smile when I shoot him a sharp glare.

“Maybe she’s just teething, Baz,” he says with a voice full of mirth. “Babies do that, don’t they?”

_ “Teething!?” _ I spit venomously. “It’s been taking bloody lessons from cannibals! It was inches away from my actual fucking skin!”

Snow actually rolls his eyes at me, as if he can’t believe I’d be this worked up over a shirt. He might be an uncultured swine, but surely everyone knows how expensive  _ silk _ is.

My mind reminds me that he was dressing our baby in goat clothes earlier and I stand corrected.

“She was eating my clothes, Snow. The baby goat prophecy has come true,” I huff at him. My wand’s out and aimed at the offending hole before I’ve even thought it through.  **_“Good as–”_ **

Snow knocks my wand away with reflexes only seven years of sword-fighting could produce, sending it clattering to the ground. “No magic!”

I scowl and pick up my wand, wringing the baby saliva out of my sleeve. “How do parents do this without  _ magic? _ I learned how to spell my buttons closed as soon as I could talk.”

Snow sheathes his sword and picks the tiny monster up from my bed. He carefully extracts the fabric of my shirt from her mouth and holds it out to me. I pinch it from his palm with two fingers, grimacing. “Maybe it’s not all Magickal babies,” he says. “Penny said she can use magic on hers, no problem.”

“Just our luck,” I say dryly. “Of course we get the one fake baby that  _ doesn’t like magic.” _

Snow shrugs.  _ “I _ don’t like it when other people cast on me.” He hoists the baby onto his shoulder, and she begins to play with his hair. I have to hold back a smile at how precious the image is—his messy curls clutched in her small fists.

“Because you’re an anomaly, Snow.”

“Because I didn’t grow up with magic,” he says. He turns his head to look at the baby fondly and pats her on the back. “This one’s full of magic, obviously. But maybe she’s like me.”

“She’s just like you,” I agree, somewhat wearily. “Just as much of an absolute nightmare.”

And then I leave the room to go sit on the stairs, fix my shirt, and try to tamp down the painful feelings tugging at my heart.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a wholesome family walk, what could go wrong?

**  
** ** Day 6: ****Sunday**

** Baz  
**

I wake to the feel of Simon Snow’s arms wrapped around me for the third morning in a row.

I decide to let myself watch his face for just a little while longer, dreading having to break the spell of this moment. I let my eyes trail along the line of his strong jaw, settling on his mouth—parted, while he breathes loudly in my face, because he’s a mess. I trace the line up his nose and linger over the moles on his cheek, smothering the urge to cover them with my lips.

I’m just appreciating the flickering of Snow’s stubby lashes when, suddenly, he opens his eyes and catches me staring. I watch as shock and confusion flit quickly across his face before his expression settles into something much softer. Any defence I had been preparing in my mind quickly evaporates. (I don’t want to ruin this. Whatever _this_ is.)

We stare at each other for a long moment. He’s so close, our noses are almost touching. I don’t miss the way his arms tighten a fraction around my waist. I’m waiting for my brain to provide a sarcastic comment, a scathing remark; anything but this dumbfounded silence. 

But I don’t need to. Snow, courageous fuck that he is, swallows his showy swallow and whispers, “Hey.”

It’s barely a word—more breath streaming across the pillow than actual speech—as if he, too, is scared of shattering whatever this moment is between us.

The baby, on the other hand, has no such qualms. A deafening wail fills the room, shocking us both back to the present.

Snow is up and out of bed so quickly that you’d be right in wondering which one of us has superhuman speed.

I barely have time to miss the warmth of his arms before he’s lifting her out of his bed and mumbling “time to eat” in a voice still slightly rough from sleep.

He gathers her bottle from the desk and sits down on the edge of his bed to feed her.

Watching him with her, like this—sleep in the corner of his eyes, hair mussed, lines still imprinted onto his face from his pillow—I know instantly that it’s all over. It’s a future I never thought I wanted—I never imagined children would be in the picture. But now I can’t keep fighting how much I want it to be real.  
  


* * *

** Simon  
**

I’m trying to concentrate on feeding the baby and not letting my thoughts stray back to Baz’s bed.

Baz’s bed: where he was watching me sleep with his deep-water grey eyes.

Baz’s bed: where I woke to him wrapped in my arms.

Baz’s bed: which he’s currently climbing out of, stretching sleep out of his long limbs, shirt riding up to reveal the skin of his hips...

Hips I just had my arms wrapped around.

I try to swallow around a suddenly dry mouth.

_Just keep looking down, Simon. Don’t let him see that he’s getting to you._

He’s doing this on purpose. (Whatever _this_ is.) He must be.

The baby coughs a little and I realise I’ve been bouncing my right knee, jiggling her while she’s trying to swallow down milk. I brace the bottle in between my thighs and lift her upright against my shoulder, patting her back and feeling a little guilty. (Bloody Baz, always a distraction.)

Baz brushes past us to the ensuite and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t watch him go. 

I turn my attention back to feeding the baby and a few minutes later I hear the telltale sound of the shower switching on through the closed door.

It occurs to me that, technically, today is the last day of our truce. It would be just like Baz to sneakily rile me up today, so that he can blindside me with a curse tomorrow. 

And he is. Riling me up, I mean. My fingers are itching to just grab him and shake him and… figure it all out.

I consider taking my sword for a few rounds of hacking at the trees in the Wavering Wood, but we all know how well that went last time. 

“Last day together,” I tell the baby. (Does talking to babies when they can’t speak back mean you’re going mad?)

She blinks up at me with wide blue eyes around an empty bottle. I lift it out of her mouth and she tilts her head at me.

“Ba-ba,” she says.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “Me, you, and Ba-ba.”

I burp her, then stand and lift her up to play aeroplane, making her giggle. I like hearing her giggle; it makes me laugh too. I suspect Baz has been playing aeroplane with her as well, although he’d never admit it.

True to his word though, Baz has definitely been less of a wanker since the truce. He’s actually been, well, _helpful._ It’s been nice, not constantly watching over my shoulder for Baz. I haven’t really needed to; caring for the little’un means we’ve been around each other pretty much all the time.

I don’t want to go back to how it was before; him mocking me and me worrying he’s going to jump out of a hedge to drain me dry.

I’ve been trying not to think about it—there’s no use thinking about things you can’t change—but, if I can’t extend the truce, maybe I can make the most of it.

Tomorrow Baz will go back to being a prickly tosser who might kill me at any second, so I’ll be damned if I waste today.

We’re all going out. Together.

I stand and rush over to the parent pack, ready to dress the baby in whatever I find first, but then I hear a rumble of thunder. Rain starts lashing against the window and I hear wind whistling loudly against the frame.

Shit.

“Just my luck,” I tell her. She blinks at me and then blows a raspberry, which pops against her face.

I sigh and lift her in the air again.

“One… two… three!”

* * *

** Baz**

“Looks like the storm’s cleared,” I hear Snow announce from his perch at the window. He’s obsessed with that window, rain or shine. It’s no wonder the baby seems to be obsessed with it, too.

“Have we resorted to talking about the weather, Snow?” I drawl, turning a page of my book. “Spare me.”

“Was just thinking maybe we could take the baby for a walk. She’s not been out since Friday.”

 _We?_ As in, Snow and I both take the baby for a walk? Like some kind of ‘happy family.’

“And why would we do that?” I ask, nonchalantly, as if I’m not hanging onto his every word.

“Well. Um. It’s our last day, er. W-with her. And. Well I wanted...”

He trails off but I think I hear the end of his sentence. It’s the same thought that’s been echoing around in my own mind since I woke up this morning. I want to spend this last day with her together, too. I want to savour this truce we have; savour these last few hours of not having to be enemies.

I know the baby is chaotic, but I’d gladly take her chaos for another week if it meant that I could keep this delicate sort of peace with Snow.

So that’s how I find myself bundled up in my coat and scarf, wheeling a pushchair along the pavement whilst Snow chatters on next to me about the “mega” roast beef sandwich he made himself for dinner in the dining hall last night. (I have no idea what makes a sandwich “mega,” but at this point, I’m too afraid to ask.)

We round a corner and I spot the White Chapel up ahead. We’re almost halfway through our walk of the grounds, and I find myself imagining ways in which I could drag this out. 

When we reach the White Chapel, I slow my pace to little more than a crawl with an insult prepared on my tongue to throw at Snow if he protests; but when I cut my eyes to him, he doesn’t seem to mind. He grins at me instead: cheeks bunching, eyes crinkling, teeth on show.

Crowley.

He’s never directed a smile like that my way before. I don’t think he’s ever directed a smile my way, full stop. 

Snow’s still prattling on about his sandwich as he comes to a complete stop near the walkway to the Chapel doors, hands spread in an attempt to show me just how large the monstrosity was.

"Your ceaseless capacity to stuff your face continues to disgust me.” I sneer at him. “Surely even you can't fit that much in your gaping maw."

"You'd be surprised what I can fit in my mouth," he tells me, and I almost choke.

I turn my face away, aware that I drank heavily last night and I just might have enough blood in me to blush. I take up the handles of the pushchair again but stop when I realise it’s lighter than it was before. 

Much, much lighter.

Oh, no.

I round the front of the pushchair and I’m met with the sight of a solitary dummy and two straps, edges frayed from bite marks where the little demon has gnawed herself free.

The next breath I take shudders on the inhale as I try to remain calm. 

Snow must sense my panic because he comes to stand beside me. 

“Merlin’s fucking _balls.”_

My sentiments exactly.

Snow is visibly bewildered. “How could she have got away without us noticing?”

“You mean while you were too busy waxing poetic about a bloody sandwich!” I snap at him. “Let’s just find her quick, before she blows up the Chapel.”

I set off in the direction of the hedges outlining the perimeter when Snow clears his throat from behind me.

“Um, Baz. I found her.”

I wonder briefly why, if he’s found her, he sounds so worried. And then I follow his line of sight up the White Chapel facade and see her perched next to one of the gargoyles above the doorway.

“Think she’s found a friend,” Snow chuckles. 

Upon further inspection, I see what he means. The baby is _hugging_ the gargoyle, and as we get closer I realise she’s babbling to it: “Ba-ba-ba-da-da-ba-ba...”

She might have been forged in the depths of hell, but she’s cute, I’ll give her that.

“She’s a little gargoyle herself Snow, so yes, she’s among friends,” I muse.

“How are we going to get her down this time?” 

“I am _not_ lifting you again,” I sneer. “I barely pieced together what was left of my self-respect last time.”

Snow shrugs and eyes the building speculatively. I watch as he turns his attention to the ground and his eyes snag on a large rock. 

“Reckon I’d be tall enough if I stood on that rock,” he says, more to himself than to me.

“If you fall and break your neck, I won’t be carrying you to the infirmary,” I tell him, purely because I like to snipe at him.

He huffs and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “‘cause you’re a twat” as he walks over to the rock. 

My retort dies on my tongue as I watch Snow bend down to lift the rock from the ground with his back straight and knees bent. (He has a surprisingly superb lifting posture.) (I try not to let my mind run away with _that_ fact.)

His stance has caused his trousers to do some arse-related things that are entirely too distracting. It’s late in the term and he’s filled out his clothes, so the fabric is straining deliciously across the backs of his thighs. (All that eating and swordplay _does_ pay off.) (And I reap the benefits.)

I force my eyes up to find him watching me. “Give me a hand Baz, c’mon!” 

I hover for a minute, weighing up my options, but eventually give in. It’s getting harder and harder to deny this gorgeous half-wit anything.

I round the side of the rock to face him and mimic his stance, grasping as much of the rock as I can. I try not to let my eyes linger on the strain of Snow’s wrists and biceps, but even through his duffle coat I can see how strong he is.

“Ready?” he asks when I meet his eyes.

Our faces are so close that I can only nod at him; I’m afraid that if I speak, he’ll be able to hear my nerves fraying in the timbre of my voice.

“One… two… thr—”

“Crowley, Snow!” I shout as he lifts his side early, catching me unawares and almost knocking me into the hedge.

“What? You’re the one who didn’t lift!” he argues. 

“Any sane person knows you go _after_ three, not _on_ three!” I snap at him.

He growls loudly; a rich grumble that starts in the back of his throat.

“Fine,” he spits at me through clenched teeth. _“After_ three.”

He readies himself again by rocking left to right on the balls of his feet, making his arse shake, and I try to focus on the task at hand.

“One… two… three!”

We both lift together this time and it’s an awful game of “to me—to you” as we hobble over to the doorway.

Snow climbs onto the rock, but Little Miss Gargoyle isn’t paying him any attention, still babbling away to her new friends up above us. He grabs her around the waist but the second he pries her away, I see her lower lip begin to wobble.

“Careful Snow, she looks like she’s going to cry!” I warn.

He pulls her to his chest and rocks her gently as he steps down, shushing her in a soft voice.

I hand Snow the sling from the parent pack as he hands me the baby, bouncing her a little to make her giggle while he fastens it around his front. (I try not to let myself linger over how easy this partnership has become.)

“C’mon Little Gargoyle, let's get you home,” he coos as he slots her in.

I raise my eyebrow at the nickname. “Gargoyle?”

He shrugs at me, a soft smile on his lips. He seems almost shy.

I find myself smiling back at him as I say, “It suits her.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday once again to our King, Kris 🥳👏🎉  
> Thank you all SO MUCH for reading along with us and leaving such amazing comments ❤️❤️  
> We started out this fic thinking only [Krisrix](%E2%80%9C) and maybe 3 others would give a shit and the support you guys have given us has been phenomenal!!! We hope you had as much fun reading it as we did writing it! ❤️
> 
> Tumblr masterpost [here](https://scone-lover.tumblr.com/post/632251863521280000/raising-a-demon) if you’d like to share!
> 
> Another big thanks to [ninemagicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks) and [sourcherrymagiks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourcherrymagiks/pseuds/Sourcherrymagiks) for beta reading 💕and to [Selkie](https://subparselkie.tumblr.com/) for making amazing art to go along with this fic 😍
> 
> There are a couple of images inserted below with cursive text but plain text can be found in the notes at the bottom 🥰

**  
** ** Day 7: ****Monday**

** Baz**

Snow sits next to me on my bed, left leg bent, his shin pressed into my right thigh. I wonder if this closeness will fade once we hand the baby back later. He deposits her into my lap and she immediately grabs both of our ties to play with them.

I’ll miss this.

Surprisingly, I think I’ll miss her.

“Gargoyle’s not all bad,” Snow says as the baby chews on his tie. “I think she’s grown on me.”

“She’s eating your uniform,” I point out.

“She’s wrinkling yours,” he says, eyeing my tie balled up in her fist.

I shrug in an entirely Snow-like manner. “Nothing that can’t be fixed with a bit of magic.”

His brow wrinkles. “She won’t like that.”

“She won’t be there,” I say.

I watch as he thinks that over, absently carding a hand through the baby’s mop of black curls. “...yeah.”

“Why so morose, Snow?” I raise an eyebrow. “Don’t you miss the little things… like eating, and sleeping?”

He raises both eyebrows back at me. “It’s just. I think I’ll miss… this, more.”

“What, Little Gargoyle?” His tie’s been reduced to shreds of green and purple fabric. Has she grown tiny imp fangs?

Snow shakes his head. “No. Not– not her. More like our–”

The baby pulls on our ties all of a sudden, hard, and we both gasp as we’re jolted face first into each other. Snow pulls back, laughing as I’m left rubbing at the place where his solid forehead smacked me in the chin.

“Crowley, Snow! I’m going to have a boulder-shaped bruise,” I grumble.

He reaches over with both hands and I’m struck dumb as he grabs the sides of my jaw gently, turning my head slightly left and then right, inspecting my chin in the light.

“Nah, I think you’re fine,” he states matter-of-factly.

But then he doesn’t let go. A few seconds pass and I try to tell myself this can’t be real but I’m pretty sure he’s no longer focused on my chin, but an inch higher; on my lips.

I search my brain for something to say, but all hope for wit flies out of the window as I watch him wet his lower lip and lean in…

We jump apart as the baby between us suddenly begins wailing—it sounds like she’s in pain. We both blink at her for a few seconds, shell-shocked, before I clear my throat and choke out, “I… think you squished her, Snow.”

Simon looks up at me and I try not to read too much into the look on his face. “Um.” He glances back down at the baby. “Guess I wasn’t. Um. Paying attention.”

I don’t respond. I’m struggling to form words.

He was going to kiss me. I’m sure of it. _Simon Snow was going to kiss me._

And now he looks like he might be sick. Fantastic.

I deposit the baby into his lap. “It’s your turn to feed the wretched thing. It’ll be out of our lives within the hour and good riddance,” I say, before standing and straightening my blazer. I rip off my wrinkled tie with a bit more malice than the situation calls for.

Snow doesn’t respond, and I walk out of the room without a backward glance.

* * *

** Simon**

“Please, _please_ behave,” I plead, half-convinced I’m pushing magic into the words. Since Baz has stormed out of the room with no explanation, I’m left to gather up all the baby stuff and return it to class.

The problem is, it’s _everywhere._ Baz was right—she really is good at making a mess. I strap her into her buggy so she doesn’t float off while I sweep the room for missing objects. 

The dummy, which I could swear Baz slipped on at some point, is nowhere to be found. One of the babygrows has been torn to pieces and she’s chewing on the one she’s wearing. (The goat clothes are still intact. I knew they’d be nice and durable; they’re made to withstand teething kids, after all.)

I’m hunting in the bathroom for the remnants of what seems to be an exploded baby bottle when, just my luck, she starts wailing.

I whirl around and dash over to the buggy. “What is it now? I just fed you!”

Gargoyle extends her little arms towards the door, her face screwed up and red with distress. “Ba-ba,” she cries.

“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter. I pick her up and bounce lightly, stroking her forehead and nose like how Baz taught me. “It’s okay, Little Gargoyle,” I say in what I hope’s a soothing tone. 

“Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba…” She reaches toward the door again.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get him.” I walk to our door and open it, peering down the stairs. “Bab– I mean, Baz?”

No answer.

“I know you’re there,” I huff. “Brooding or plotting or… whatever else you do in your spare time.”

Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s the incessant cries of “Ba-ba,” but Baz’s head eventually appears at the bottom of the stairs, followed by his hunched form. He looks… exhausted. “What is it now, Snow?”

The baby shuts up as soon as she sees Baz. Which seems a little unfair, honestly.

“I, um.” I jerk a thumb behind me. “I need help with the baby stuff.”

Gargoyle sits quietly in her buggy, apparently trying to fit her entire fist in her mouth in place of a dummy, while Baz and I play the world’s worst game of hide-and-seek with all the missing things. Finally, Baz deems that we’re going to be late to class and we can’t exactly be expected to return a dummy which may or may not have been vanished into the ether, so we leave.

Baz pushes the buggy, loaded with the parent pack, while I hold Gargoyle in her sling. She’s fallen asleep against my chest, and it’s almost like she’s not there as we walk across the grounds to class.

He’s finally telling me about the expanding baby bottle, and he keeps glancing over at us with this amused, weirdly fond expression. And that’s when I realise that I don’t think I’m going to miss the little hell-spawn _all_ that much.

I’m going to miss _this._ Being able to walk in step with Baz without being at each other’s throats. Working together on something instead of working against each other. Hearing Baz’s sarcastic remarks; he’s actually quite funny when they’re not aimed at me for once…

My heart’s beating too fast and my face starts feeling too hot, so I turn my head down and play with the baby’s black hair instead. The colour is identical to Baz’s, and even though she’s got my curls, hers are definitely softer. (I wonder if Baz has been using his posh shampoo on her when he gives her a wash?) 

This isn’t helping. It’s just making me want to reach over and run my hands through _Baz’s_ hair instead. I wonder if his hair feels just as silky, just as smooth. 

It feels a little bittersweet when we reach the class building; on one hand, I’m happy to have time for second helpings at mealtimes again, but as I hold the door open for Baz (and he actually _thanks_ me), I’m just left wondering: where do we go from here?

Without the truce. Without the baby as a reason to have a truce. As an excuse to get along.

“She’s going to deactivate now,” Baz points out, just as I’m about to cross the threshold. There’s a fine line between his brows, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

“Good riddance, I guess.” No more vomit and explosions and merwolf battles. (No more _Baz,_ not like this…) “Like you said.”

Gargoyle stirs in the sling. She babbles more “Ba”s and “Da”s as she makes a mad grab for my hair. With her other arm, she stretches for Baz’s nose. 

He leans forward willingly with an amused eye roll. “Such coordination.”

“That’s all me, I guarantee it.”

“You flatter yourself.” He sounds nasally, on account of the baby having his nose in her surprisingly firm grip. I think she’s trying to pull it down his face, which is… strangely relatable. (I’ve wanted to do that since first year.) “You’re the Chosen One of tripping over your own feet, maybe.”

I untangle Gargoyle’s fingers from my hair and kiss her chubby cheek. “Goodbye, little demon.”

Baz frees his nose. “You’ve been awful,” he says to the baby, “and we won’t miss you.”

“Hey, don’t be mean,” I say, but I’m laughing.

“I can’t believe you just kissed that… creature.” His nose wrinkles. He’s trying not to laugh.

In response, I hold her up in front of him. She kicks her feet around in the air. “C’mon, you know you want to,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “Never.” When his gaze turns soft it’s, surprisingly, directed at me. “Let’s go in, Snow. We’ll be late.”

Madam Bellamy is waiting for us with a serene smile, the same large crate from before perched on her desk. 

For some reason I’m reluctant to let go of the baby. And anyway Baz makes no move to return everything, just steers us straight to a pair of desks, so I follow.

A high-pitched scream echoes through the classroom as a wayward buggy zooms in all by itself. The tyres squeal it does a 360 in front of Bellamy, then resumes its possessed joyride. 

A moment later, Dev comes careening in at top speed, dragging Niall by the hand. They dash around the classroom and Dev practically throws himself on top of the buggy to stop it. He frees the baby and hurls it at Niall, who catches it in perfect form—as if he were playing a game of rugby. 

“Darling,” Dev says wearily, dragging himself up and taking Niall’s hand again. “We are _never,_ ever having children.”

“No argument there,” Niall sighs, and eagerly returns their baby to Madam Bellamy, who unspells it with a simple **_“Back to start!”_ ** (of course it works when _she_ does it) and places the now-deactivated baby in the crate.

Our classmates are all varying states of dishevelled as, one by one, the rest of the groups enter the room.

Rhys is the first to wheel in, baby resting in his llama sling; Penny walks in behind him, looking murderous. She unceremoniously rips the baby out of the sling and drops it onto the desk in front of Bellamy in a very un-Penny-like manner. She sits down on my other side, and I know she’s in a bad mood because she’s stewing too much to even complain to me. (Safe to say that assignment hasn’t gone well, then.) (I’ll have to ask her later.)

Trixie and Keris’s baby floats in on a fluffy, purple cloud, landing directly in Bellamy’s arms. It trails pixie dust in its wake, making my eyes water and my nose itch. Others in the class start sneezing, including Keris (Trixie is nowhere to be found), but Madam Bellamy looks incredibly pleased.

Gareth, Elspeth, and Saira are next to enter, and at first I think they’ve forgotten to bring their baby… until I see that Elspeth has it strapped across her back while it wiggles around crying. Gareth is making funny faces at it but his face is stained with tear tracks, while Saira brings up the rear, hauling the pieces of a torn-up parent pack. They seem a lot less stressed than the others, but I wouldn’t exactly say they’re in good spirits.

Agatha is the only person who seems to have not been mentally scarred by the whole thing. We all watch as she glides in with her buggy, unbuckles the baby and gives it a kiss on the forehead before handing it off to Bellamy with a beautifully satisfied grin.

When I turn Baz’s way again, he’s already looking at me. His eyes flicker down to the baby, uncertainly, then back up to me. 

“Guess it’s time, then,” I say.

I’m not sure how this goes on. Where this leads. How to make Baz keep looking at me like this, once Gargoyle’s gone. I cling to her like a life preserver—like she’s the only thing standing between me and the full force of Baz’s hatred again. (And maybe she is.)

Baz nods towards the front. “Do you want to…”

I shift our little Gargoyle out of the sling and cradle her in my arms. “Um. Yeah, I guess. Actually, why don’t you–”

He’s out of his seat before I finish my sentence, shoulder pressing into mine. “We’ll do it together.”

A week ago I would’ve said this was impossible. A week ago I’d have said that if Baz Pitch ever decided to stand this close to me… well, the only reason would be to drain me dry.

And now here he is, walking in tandem with me to the front of the room, calmly wheeling the buggy while I carry the baby.

Bellamy raises her eyebrows at me, lips curling into a smug smile, “It seems as though your partnership wasn’t so bad after all, hm, boys?”

My face grows hot, but when I glance at Baz he just seems bored. “It– well, it wasn’t– I mean,” I bluster, “it wasn’t the… partner… thing. It was the evil baby!”

“She is a dread creature of hell,” Baz confirms, and I nod along vigorously.

“I wonder,” Bellamy asks, handing me a slip of paper with our grade on it, “was it so evil after you proved you could cooperate in the assignment?”

I glance down at the slip.

**100%.**

What the actual fuck?

I look back up as Baz leans over my shoulder to peek at the paper. “But we– I mean, you said…”

Madam Bellamy smiles mysteriously. “The assignment was graded on cooperation if you had a partner, and how well you learned the life skill of Magickal Parenting—not on the traits your baby possessed which, admittedly, you could not control.”

“But we– I mean, um–” 

Baz turns on his heel to leave before I can get the rest of the sentence out. (It’s not as if I had an ending to it, anyway.) He leaves the buggy there and half legs it back to his seat without a second look. I thrust the baby at Bellamy, all too happy to follow his lead.

Baz won’t look at me. 

Just sits in his chair, back ramrod straight, picking at his fingernails. His face has settled back to its default—sardonic eyebrows, mouth a condescending line—all hints of softness have vanished.

So that’s it, then. The baby’s gone, the truce is over, and we’re back to sworn enemies. Whatever delicate thing we’d built up over the past week has come crashing down.

I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything else from Baz. I knew this was bound to happen. Still, I can’t help but feel weirdly disappointed by his coldness.

“Your attention, please,” Bellamy announces, without magic. We look toward the front as she clasps her hands together and begins to speak. “I’m glad to see that all of your babies—and indeed, all of you—are intact. I do hope you learnt some new and helpful Magickal life skills throughout the course of this assignment. Would anyone like to share some insights?”

Penny’s hand is up in the air before she’s even finished the sentence. “I found that the same-sex partnerships had an unfair advantage,” she says, “seeing as they could enter each other’s rooms. Or in some cases even lived in the same room!”

Is Penny trying to say that _I_ had an unfair advantage being paired with _Basilton fucking Pitch?_

Madam Bellamy looks almost amused. Or maybe exasperated. “Miss Bunce, in the real world, same-sex couples face many distinct challenges in acquiring children, so I rather think an advantage is permissible for this assignment, hm?” 

She looks around the room. “Would anyone else like to share? 

Everyone else looks too exhausted to form thoughts, let alone suffer Bellamy’s unsympathetic responses. She seems pleased by this, a smug smile on her face as she continues her speech.

“As I’m sure many of you will have deduced, I cast **_"_** ** _Cooperation is key"_** on the babies for those of you who were partnered or allocated groups. The better you worked together, the better the babies behaved.”

She aims a pointed look toward me and Baz. 

“And I must say, Mr Snow and Mr Pitch were particular standouts in that area.”

Every head in the class swivels toward us in utter shock. I get it—Baz and I are well known for publicly fighting every time we have to interact. The idea of us cooperating must seem completely ridiculous.

I’m sure I’m blushing up a storm. Baz, for his part, just raises an indifferent eyebrow, as if she’d declared the sky was blue.

Bellamy continues speaking like she hasn’t just announced the most surprising thing Watford’s heard in seven years. 

“For those of you who were not partnered with anyone,” she explains, “it is likely that the spell understood a deep-seated desire to explore your independence. And although you didn’t take part in the cooperation exercise, I am confident you have learned many valuable skills, given that you had to rear the Magickal child completely on your own.” 

_A desire for independence._

I stare over at Agatha. She’s smiling prettily at Madam Bellamy as she plays with her butter blonde hair. She looks… _happy._ It stings a little, the idea that she didn’t want to do this with me…

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Baz finally bend down to take his notebook out of his bag. His hair loosens into a lazy wave over his face, hiding his expression. It looks soft; I have to fight the urge to push it out of his eyes for him. 

I glance back at Agatha. I suppose Penny was right, Agatha was doing well all on her own. And, well… Baz and I… we were _good_ together. We scored 100%! ‘Standouts,’ Bellamy called us. So maybe it’s not such a bad thing that I got partnered with him instead of Aggie... 

Madam Bellamy stands and my attention snaps back to her. She smiles cheerfully as she walks between the rows, and I know we’re in for it. 

“However,” she says, “I also cast **_‘It takes two, baby!’_ **—a compatibility spell—in order to create the groups. The spell took into account your personalities, chemistry, and nurturing style, then placed you in your optimal parenting situation among your classmates.”

Wait, what?

Nurturing style? _Chemistry?_

Before I have a chance to digest what this means, Bellamy continues. “If you have any further questions about the nuances of the spell, please feel free to ask me when class concludes.”

Penny is scribbling madly, looking upset enough that I assume all her research about Parent and-slash-or-Guardian & Me classes didn’t quite pay off.

Madam Bellamy charms the chalk to write for her again. “Now, for next week’s assignment, you are to write a paper—with your partner or group, if you have one—about your experiences…”

I stop listening. Penny can tell me later.

I look at Baz instead.

He’s studiously taking notes in longhand, hair still hanging down, obscuring his face. He doesn’t glance my way.

_A compatibility spell._

I’m still clutching the crumpled paper with our grade on it. I flip it over, smoothing it out to reveal the report Madam Bellamy’s written. 

I skip to the bottom of the list.

I slide the paper to Baz, nudging his arm when he doesn’t look up. He takes it from me without a word.

_Your optimal parenting situation._

I watch Baz as he scans the paper. His elegant eyebrows are gently furrowed, but then his forehead smoothens and his lips twitch at something he’s read. When he reaches the end, he finally, finally raises his gaze to me. 

_Chemistry…_

Our eyes meet. 

Baz nods his approval at the grade and gives me the smallest of smiles.

_Potency of your compatibility…_

But we hate each other. We’ve never gotten along, not until now. We’re enemies, we’ve always been enemies, and I don’t see how a bloody spell could’ve figured out that we could somehow be–

_Compatible._

Oh.

* * *

** Baz**

The second class is over, I take advantage of the distracting swarm of classmates with questions for Madam Bellamy and escape as quickly as I can without running.

I’m halfway down the hall when my luck runs out and someone catches my wrist.

I know without looking who it is.

“We need to talk,” Snow says.

I ignore him, freeing my wrist and continuing my brisk strides down the hallway. He jogs to catch up, then plants himself squarely in front of me to block my path. I raise an eyebrow at him, then sidestep and keep walking.

“Baz,” he says from somewhere behind my right shoulder. “Seriously.”

He follows me almost to the main doors, pestering me until I finally turn around. I give an almighty roll of my eyes for good measure. “What is it now, Snow?”

“We need to talk about the assignment,” he insists. We’re frozen amidst a crowd of moving students, and people jostle us with their bags and shoulders as they pass.

I know all too well what he’s going to say. It’s so clear from the blaze of his eyes, the set of his jaw. 

He’s going to insist this is somehow my fault. He’s thick enough to assume I’ve orchestrated the whole thing by way of ‘plotting’. I may as well poke at him a little, before we go back to ignoring each other entirely.

“The baby’s gone, if you hadn’t noticed,” I point out. “So you can get back to stuffing your face and swinging your sword and going on your heroic Chosen One missions–”

“I mean the other stuff,” he says, impatiently.

“If you mean the paper,” I respond, well aware it’s not at all what he was referring to, “don’t bother. I’ll handle it.”

“No,” he growls, rounding on me again. His magic starts to fill the hallway, sticky and green. “Merlin, Baz. Stop pretending you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about.”

It’s my turn to grasp his wrist, suddenly concerned he’s going to out me to the entire student body. “We are not doing this here,” I hiss, leaning in slightly.

I find myself yanked sideways in response. Snow forces open a random door, and we tumble into what appears to be a broom cupboard. I trip over a broom, and he knocks into me full force, then slams the door shut.

“What the fuck, Snow,” I snap, attempting to brush my clothes off and reclaim a sliver of dignity.

It’s unlikely that he can see me fully, but I can make out his features perfectly. There’s a tiny beam of light making its way through the crack between the door and the wall, highlighting the strong line of his jaw. I hear footsteps pounding behind him, the buzzing chatter of students passing.

“Baz,” he says quietly, “the spell put _us…_ together.”

He looks almost… distressed. 

“Crowley, I know it was horrid, but at least it’s over now,” I offer.

Snow shakes his head. “Didn’t mean it like that. Just. Did you see what Madam Bellamy wrote?”

How could I forget? _The potent nature of your compatibility…_

He’s going to insist that Bellamy was wrong. That there’s no way a Pitch—a vampire—and the Mage's Heir could ever be compatible. That we’re enemies; all we’ll ever be is enemies.

I’m not going to let him embarrass me further. I’m going to be the one to reject him first.

“The spell was half defective,” I say. “It put Bunce and Rhys together, didn’t it?”

Snow shrugs this away easily. “She has a boyfriend. I think they just got stuck with each other.”

“The same could have happened to us.”

“I don’t think so.”

Magic seems determined to put Snow and I together in situations where we're meant to share a bond. First The Crucible, and now this. I always assumed that The Crucible had matched us by our penchant for getting under each other’s skin. We’re sworn enemies after all, and isn’t that what sworn enemies do? (It’s a commitment, swearing to kill someone in new and exciting ways every day.) (Not to mention time consuming.)

I assumed that my queerness, the fact that I am so pathetic to have fallen in love with someone who hates me, was something not even The Crucible could have predicted.

And now here he is, Simon fucking Snow, implying that we’re _compatible_ in other ways—that our bond might be something other than the promise of killing one another. (It’s everything I’ve ever wanted, but I can’t even imagine it. He’s the _Mage’s_ _Heir.)_

My incredulous expression does nothing to slow his speech, because he tries again. “Even Little Gargoyle wanted us to stop fighting.”

Here I open my mouth to protest, to insist that it was the cooperation spell—because I’m self-destructive and I can’t let myself believe this is real—but he doesn’t stop.

“I liked it. Well, not the demon kid, but what we’ve been doing.” He looks away and I watch as he hassles his hair before continuing.

“But she’s not here to tug us together by our school ties now,” he says, laughing a little nervously. My heart stops when he looks at me, more seriously than before. “So I’ll just have to go for it myself.”

Simon Snow leans in and presses his lips lightly against mine. It’s a question I’m too frozen with shock to answer.

He pulls back after a few seconds, eyeing me warily.

“Baz?” he whispers, tentatively, and a dam breaks inside of me.

* * *

** Simon **

If someone had told me this time last week I’d be snogging Baz Pitch in a broom cupboard, I’d probably have blown the roof off of the Weeping Tower. 

But here I am, snogging Baz Pitch in a broom cupboard. Life is strange like that.

I think the stranger part is that Baz is kissing me _back._

* * *

** Baz **

If I knew that the fake baby assignment would have led to this outcome, I’d never have complained. I’d gladly do it again. I’d deal with that chaos demon a thousand times over if it led to this. 

I’d let her spell my hair any neon colour she wanted, vomit all over my favourite cashmere, drown me in various bathrooms, and gnaw holes through every item of clothing I have.

Because Simon Snow is _kissing_ me.

I’m kissing Simon Snow.

It’s a bit clumsier than in my daydreams but better than anything I could have imagined. He’s good at this; he keeps doing this thing with his chin. He pushes, and I push back. (He keeps knocking us into more brooms.) (Why does a Magickal school even _have_ brooms?)

His mouth is hot like the sun; sparking a fire in my chest and flooding me with heat. It’s heady and it pools in my stomach. (I want to _eat_ him.)

He trips over a bucket, forehead knocking into mine, and laughs. I’m sure my face betrays every mortifyingly soft emotion I have, everything I’ve tried to bury beneath layers of insults and sarcasm.

How much I love him. How afraid I am of him seeing it.

But then he tangles his hands in my hair and tugs me toward him again, and I find I don’t care.

* * *

(Bonus art from the fantastic [Selkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unenthusiastic_mermaid)!) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Text versions of their assessment notes:
> 
>  **Number of altercations (baby glowing purple) and response time:**  
>  **Day 1.** Altercations: 14. Average response time: 27 minutes.  
>  **Day 2.** Altercations: 61. Average response time: 141 minutes.
> 
> I skip to the bottom of the list.
> 
>  **Day 6.** Altercations: 0  
>  **Day 7.** Altercations: 0  
>  **Parenting Pack Items Returned**  
>  7 out of 15  
> Note: Disappointing, though if Mr Snow is to be believed, several of these items were disintegrated or sent to an alternate dimension by the baby. If the lost dummy does fly into your room one day through a hole in the fabric of space-time, as they do, please return it to me.  
>  **Overall Notes**  
>  Drastic improvement over time. Both of you learned to collaborate in a rapidly efficient manner that betrays the potent nature of your compatibility. By the end of the assignment, you were the only grouping with zero altercations. First rate Magickal Parenting; well done!


End file.
